30 Days of Prompts
by dumpling47
Summary: My own take on the 30 Day OTP challenge, inspired by several prompts on LiveJournal. Johnlock, of course, with plenty of kink.
1. Twice In One Night

_Welcome to my own take on the 30 Day OTP challenge! All of the following fics were inspired by the 'bbc sherlock' prompts tag on LiveJournal, so credit goes to that user for the amazing ideas!_

* * *

_**1) Sherlock/John caught in the act**_

* * *

Sometimes, it's hard to keep one's sex drive at bay, especially when you're dealing with a man like Sherlock Holmes. We'd just arrived back from a serious case, and desperately needed to unwind. Intimate relations seemed the only answer.

We didn't even make it up to the bedroom. Right there, in front of the blazing fire, we went at undressing each other, appreciating each other's warmth all the while. Sherlock wasn't naturally aggressive in sexual encounters (I was usually on top), but tonight he was being rather feisty. He all but tore off my clothes and proceeded to slide his tongue across my sensitive middle. I let out a small cry of surprise.

"Sherlock!" I yelped.

"John ..." Sherlock moaned throatily, working his way downward. "Excellent ... results ... the case ..."

"Y-yes ..."

And then, of all things, he bit me! I cried out, lunging after him as quickly as possible and pinning him down on the rug.

"Enough of the games," Sherlock growled, retaliating by pushing my head down as far as it would go. "Do your worst."

God, I loved him like this; he was so damned attractive! I couldn't even handle it. I went about answering to his commands - until - oh God - I heard a startled cry from the doorway.

"LESTRADE!?" Sherlock cried, jumping up and covering himself with his coat.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade groaned, turning his face away. "And - John ... ?"

"Yeah," I said, beyond surprised.

"What seems to be the matter, Inspector?" Sherlock asked.

"I, well - er, the case, I wanted to clarify - damn it, you two, don't you know how locks work!?"

I went scarlet, but Sherlock had an answer for everything. He replied rather coolly that he simply could not be bothered to lock a door when he was in such a state of arousal.

I believe Lestrade was rather taken aback by this response (as if he hadn't been taken aback before).

"Problem, Inspector?" Sherlock demanded. "Can I not enjoy the fruits of a case freshly won with my boyfriend?"

"Er, that's no problem," Lestrade said, oddly tolerant. "I'll just be going, then - I'll send you an email on it, okay?"

I laughed, covering myself up as well. "Sorry, Greg."

"Nah, don't be," Lestrade muttered as he exited the room. "Just be glad it wasn't Anderson!"

Sherlock positively shuddered. "I can't even imagine," he said.

"Sherlock?" I said.

"_Ye-es_, John?"

"We'll be taking this up to the bedroom, now."

"Certainly."

Truth be told, we didn't even make it up the stairs. I suppose we must've been causing a ruckus, because Mrs. Hudson appeared about a moment later.

"I should've known!" she said, when Sherlock and I didn't even bother to get dressed, "It was just the same with Mrs. Turner's boys ..."

Sherlock and I laughed rather awkwardly, and then proceeded to make our way up to our room and lock the door, very tight. After all, if one gets caught twice in the act in one day, one is bound to take future precautions.


	2. No Sense of Privacy

_**2) Sherlock limping from "enthusiastic" activities with John**_

* * *

I'd once told Irene Adler that I'd never begged for mercy in my life ... and in all honesty, at the time that had been quite true. That is, until John came along, completely compromising me - for the better, though the results could sometimes be embarrassing.

For example, the first time we really went at it hard, I came out with a severe limp.

Unfortunately for me, Lestrade wanted me to come in and check into the Atterbourne case, so I really couldn't do anything but comply. John accompanied me, doing his best to distract the others from my limping, but I know it was painfully obvious.

"Hey, Freak, what's the deal?" Donovan asked, arching an eyebrow as Lestrade looked on.

"Something the matter, Sally?"

"Yeah, you're about as lame as a duck; what's going on?"

I didn't bother looking up from the papers I was examining. "Long story or short?"

"Spare me; the short."

"John fucked me hard last night, the limp is the result."

A clattering noise, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath greeted me. I glanced up. Donovan had knocked over a paperweight and a wire basket filled with papers. Both my eyebrows shot to the ceiling.

"Problem?"

"Jesus, I don't even wanna know," Donovan said, coughing awkwardly. I glanced over at Lestrade, who was rolling his eyes in a good-natured manner. I'd expected Donovan to be taken aback, hopefully getting her out of my hair in the long run, but Lestrade was much less easy to surprise, especially after he'd caught John and me in the act a few weeks previous.

John, who hadn't been in the area at the time, stepped over to us. "Something wrong, Sally?" he asked, glancing at the sergeant.

"I - no, naturally not -"

"You'd think she'd never heard of coitus before, the way she's blubbering," I muttered. "I would've assumed, seeing that she and Anderson -"

"Sherlock?" John said.

"Yes? Oh," I said, suddenly realizing. "Not good?"

"Very not good."

"Okay."

John lowered his voice. "Speaking of which, are you feeling alright?"

"Never better ... why?"

"Well, you're limping, of course, and I thought ..."

"It hasn't affected my brainwork, so you really haven't any cause to worry."

"No, I suppose not," John said with a laugh. "But really, though - what were you talking about with Sergeant Donovan?"

"She felt the need to ask why, exactly, I was limping, so I told her the honest truth."

"Which was - ?"

I related my exact words to him.

John positively choked, letting out a bout of startled laughter.

"Sherlock, maybe next time we should keep things like that private?"

"Everyone knows we're together - what did she expect?"

"Yes, well - no one goes spilling secrets about their sex lives, either ... not usually."

"Well, I _am_ limping ... what was I supposed to say? That I sprained myself playing football?"

John sighed. "I don't know, but you realize the whole Yard's gonna be talking?"

"No, they won't. Sally's too embarrassed."

"I guess so."

Once we'd discovered the secrets of the Atterbourne circumstances (it _had_ been the gardener, after all), John an I made our way (I a bit slower) to a cab, and back to Baker Street, where we continued in the previous night's intercourse. I knew that eventually I'd stop being so sore, but for now I'd have to learn to acclimatize. And anyway, as long as we were in the process of doing such, there seemed nothing wrong with upping the stakes a little.

Sergeant Donovan thought she'd seen a limp? Well, she certainly had another thing coming.


	3. A Right of Passage

_**3) Sherlock asking John to be his sex-coach**_

* * *

The only time I've ever had a true sexual encounter was at University - with Sebastian, of all people. Sure, it was consensual, but he was rough, and I don't use that term loosely. It was over within ten minutes - and there I was, a pathetic little virgin, being hurt by someone with far too much experience.

I didn't get off on it, either. It made me wonder what was so great about sex, even though I knew Seb had set a bad example in the first place. Even so, from then on I just assumed that all encounters would be equally as unsatisfying.

When it was over, Seb ruffled my hair playfully and grinned like a loon.

"Thanks, buddy," he'd said, patting me (gently, for once). "I like em fresh, if you know what I mean."

He didn't even ask me how I felt, though I was somewhat glad for this, because if he had, I have a feeling I might've started crying.

I did start crying, actually, but not until I was alone. In the shower. I hurt all over; it hadn't been fun - it'd been miserable. I had the stereo blasting so nobody could hear, though, even though it might've seemed awfully suspicious, me of all people doing that.

From then on, I figured I'd never try again. Not even with John, with whom I'd been growing pretty close. It just wasn't worth the risk.

Then again, maybe it was. John would never hurt me. He'd be gentle; I could trust him.

We'd have to consummate our relationship, anyway, it was a sort of right of passage. I knew he'd be wanting it eventually, so I figured I'd better ask him about it before it got too late.

* * *

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" he said sleepily, up against my shoulder.

"Would you ever hurt me?"

"Of course not, Sherlock, what -"

"Can I trust you?"

"Sherlock, why are you asking this asinine questions? Of course you can trust me! I'd never hurt you - oh, God. Is this what I think it's about ... ?"

I told him the story, about Seb, about University, everything. I even told him that I wanted to try again tonight, with him. But most of all, I wanted coaching so that I knew how to please him as well.

John ran a hand gently through my hair. "Oh, Sherlock," he said softly, kissing me gently on the mouth, "Of _course_ I'll help you. I just, with Seb - it's hard to believe, you know?"

"I suppose so," I murmured. "He slept around, though he probably doesn't even remember it anymore, whereas it's been haunting me for over a decade."

I noticed tears pricking in my lover's eyes.

"You can count on me," he said quietly, as we moved closer together, our naked bodies touching.

* * *

John considered himself lousy at sex, though I thought he was the exact opposite. He was perfect. He was soft and warm and a little rough at times but not damagingly so, as Seb had been. Not that I was comparing any of this to Uni - it never could've compared, anyway.

I remember closing my eyes while I came, for the first real time in my life, and letting out a ragged sigh. I opened my eyes to find John watching me, smiling gently.

"You're so beautiful," he told me as he pulled out. "I've wanted to do this for ages."

I wanted to tell him how much better I felt, too, and how much more experienced I was, even after just one time, but I decided that some things were better expressed without words. To show him my gratitude, I moved in closer and kissed him again, whispering all the while that he should take me, take me again.

Naturally he complied, and the experience was too fantastic for words.

* * *

After that night, sex has never truly alarmed me. I've always wanted more, and John has proven his experience in the department time and time again. Eventually we got a bit rougher (no, scratch that, _much_ rougher), but when we first started, I was content to take it slow. I still am, really, but I'm always up for variety.

As long as I'm with my John, it doesn't really matter. He's changed my world, sexually and otherwise, and I could hardly ask for anything more.


	4. Lean On Me

_**4) Sherlock and John showering together**_

* * *

John hadn't seen a bloodbath so bad since Afghanistan. The victim in question had killed herself, right in front of them, before the elusive serial murderer could kill her, too. Before John or Sherlock could do anything, the murderer himself had shot his own brains out, for whatever reason - perhaps out of guilt. Details aside, John was disgusted, and the night was cold, and all he wanted was a warm shower and a soft bed.

Only problem was, he was positively staggered by his fear.

"John?" Sherlock said, hovering over his friend as Lestrade & Co. directed the ambulance/police, etc.

"I - I need to get home," John moaned. "It's too cold, Sherlock. It's too cold."

John felt this way sometimes, especially when he was afraid. It felt as though the temperature had dropped significantly, though it was hardly the beginning of winter. His body was soaked in a cold sweat. He could really have gone for one of those shock blankets right about now.

"Let's get you home, John," Sherlock suggested, hailing a cab. John, to Sherlock's great surprise, practically collapsed against Sherlock's shoulder and stayed that way the entire way home, and Sherlock didn't dare move him. They got upstairs, finally, and Sherlock asked what the doctor needed.

"Shower ..." he groaned.

Sherlock dashed up the stairs and got the water going. He knew John was far from well, and he suspected that his friend was having war flashbacks, so the utmost caution was necessary. He got John upstairs and succeeded in peeling away his damp clothing. John could barely stand up straight, though, not in his weakened state, so Sherlock sighed and stripped off his own clothing as well. He'd help John to the best of his ability, whatever that meant.

"John?" Sherlock asked, as he held up the soap. "Are you able to do this yourself?"

John, whose mind was slowly clearing with the warm running water, shook his head. "You do it."

Sherlock was surprised, though hardly scandalized. He took the bar of soap and rubbed it along John's body - his warm, subtly muscular frame, in all its solidity. That was the thing Sherlock liked best about John's physical appearance - how he could pull off the most ludicrous of jumpers but then could have such a strong build underneath.

But wait! What the hell was he thinking!? He didn't see John that way. He was completely, entirely married to his work.

_Oh, fuck it,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _I've been denying it for too long, now. I'm in love with John, and if I'm ever going to get away with pulling the moves on him, now's the time._

Before he knew what was happening, Sherlock was kissing John, long and hard. John wasn't even fighting it, and his head was mostly clear by now. There they were, too warm, naked, strong bodies, showing each other how much they both cared under a cascade of water. It was the most oddly romantic thing either of the two had ever experienced.

"John -" Sherlock said quickly, "I'm - I'm sorry. I'm completely taking advantage of your shocked state -"

"No, Sherlock, it's fine," John said, grinning. "It's more than fine."

The detective was just going to have to take his word for it.

* * *

John was feeling infinitely better after the shower and the relations, but Sherlock still insisted on babying him. He helped him into bed and cuddled close, his hushed baritone tickling John's ear.

"Damn it, Sherlock," John muttered playfully, "Why didn't we think of this before? Why did two people have to die for us to realize that this was supposed to happen?"

"It would've happened eventually," Sherlock insisted, nuzzling his face into John's strong chest, as though he were a pillow. John let out a sigh of satisfaction. "Our relationship, I mean, not the deaths."

"I'll go on thinking that, then."

"As you should."

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"One of these days, I'm going to talk to you about Afghanistan."

"Do it on your own time, John."

"Okay, I will." John paused. "Not tonight, then."

"No, not tonight," Sherlock agreed. "Tonight I want to do absolutely horrible things to you. Let's only hope you don't go back into shock ..."

"Sherlock Holmes!" John cried with laughter, "Not funny!"

"No? Absolutely hilarious, then," Sherlock said, kissing John again.

Sure, the deaths had been beyond unfortunate, and seeing John in such pain had been terrible, but both events had sparked in Sherlock a rare sense of empathy. And hell, now he and John were a couple.

As far as he could see, the night couldn't have started off much worse ... but it really couldn't have ended much better.


	5. For Science, Jawn!

**5) AU: Young Sherlock/John "experimenting"**

* * *

It was the day of my 16th birthday that Sherlock and I started truly questioning our relationship with each other. My family had just thrown me a party, and I'd received a bunch of gifts. Sherlock had arrived later, looking tall and lanky and attractive as ever. He probably already knew I fancied him, but I liked thinking that it was still a big secret.

We were messing around with my new computer software when Sherlock said (to my great surprise), "Have you ever been with anyone, John?"

"Sherlock?"

"You heard me."

The room was eerily quiet. "I've had a couple girlfriends," I muttered.

"Yes, but have you ever gotten serious?"

"Er ... no," I said, pretty taken aback. "But don't go spreading that kind of information, okay?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We might as well try it ourselves, so we don't look inexperienced if we ever want to see other people."

"What the hell are you suggesting - ?"

I was beyond flabbergasted, but Sherlock just sat there, a cool, serene expression on his face. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, what of it, John? It's quite obvious that you're attracted to me, and I feel the exact same way. We might as well experiment -"

"So, what, this is all for some bloody experiment!?"

"I want to know what it's like with someone I'm attracted to," Sherlock said. Was it just me, or did I hear a hint of begging in his voice? "And you're the only one I like in that way. Please, John?"

It was so rare to hear the word 'please' from Sherlock Holmes that I could hardly do anything but comply. I started slow, touching a hand to my friend's pale cheek.

"Is this okay?" I asked.

Sherlock snorted. "I was thinking more along the lines of _this_, John," he said, leaning forward and working his tongue into my mouth. We played around a little (scratch that - for quite awhile, actually), until ...

"I can't do this," I insisted. "We're friends - best friends - I don't want to ruin that."

"Our friendship has survive a hell of a lot more than _this_," Sherlock said, working his hand down into my pants. I felt wrong, doing this with him, and yet, it somehow felt so _right_, if you'll pardon the cliche.

Things progressed even further. I could feel myself go hard as Sherlock slowly unbuttoned my pants, guiding me along. I'd done about this much with girls before, so why was this so different?

Oh, of course. Because I was in love with him.

And he was in love with me.

I decided, from that point on, to take things head-on, to accept what came ... in more ways than one.

"That's not fair!" I insisted. "You're still fully dressed!"

"Shut up," Sherlock growled, tossing aside his shirt and pressing himself up against me. I shuddered with anticipation.

"John, dear?" a voice called.

"Oh, shit!" I grumbled. We pulled our clothes back on quickly, the moment completely ruined. "Yeah?" I called, as Sherlock and I pretended to be interested in the software I'd received.

"Dinner's almost ready. Does Sherlock want to stay?"

"Stupid question," Sherlock muttered. "She knows I won't eat a thing."

"But you'll stay because you love me," I said, perhaps a bit to forwardly. Sherlock didn't mind, though; he only grinned.

I answered my mother in the affirmative, and she went upstairs again, without ever having actually opened the door. I turned to Sherlock, grinning.

"Next time, we're going somewhere private," I said. "Not in the middle of my bloody floor."

Sherlock stole a quick kiss and sat back down again, taking me in with his sharp green eyes. "It's more fun, though, the idea that we might get caught."

"People will talk," I said. It wasn't that I cared if people knew I was attracted to another guy, it's just, well ... what Sherlock and I had, I wanted to keep it private. It was our love, not anybody else's.

"What do you care what other people think?" Sherlock asked. "They're all idiots anyway." He smiled, for once not cynically. "You're different, though, John, and I imagine that's why I like you so much."

I pecked him on the cheek, and his grin widened. "Same goes for you, Sherlock, though I never would've thought I, of all people, would win your affections."

He shrugged. "It's just one surprise after another, isn't it?"

We both laughed, turning our attention back to the computer equipment. We'd go on acting 'normal' until dinner was over, and then the real fun would begin ... though I suppose what actually _did_ go down is better left to the imagination.


	6. I'll Be Your Protection

**6) John and Sherlock start sharing a bed after 'The Great Game' because of separation anxiety**

* * *

After Moriarty's attempt on John's life, I felt as though I couldn't let either out of my sight. Moriarty got away, of course, but John ... I could still keep an eye on John.

When we got back to Baker Street, I stared at him long and intently when he wasn't looking. His shoulders seemed tense, his eyes panicked. He finally met my gaze.

"Sherlock - for God's sake, is this what goes on in your crazy life?" was all he could say.

It was meant as a joke, but I (and I'm sure he) took it all too seriously.

"John," I said quietly, my breathing uneven, "This is my fault. All my fault."

I felt so guilty, in fact, that I could hardly let him out of my sight, and he didn't seem to mind. In fact, I gather he _liked_ the attention he was getting. He was on his way to bed when I entered his room, edging close to his bed.

"I need to stay with you," I said simply. "I can't risk something like that happening again."

John shook his head sadly. "We can't always keep tabs on each other."

"No, we can't - especially not when we're asleep ... unless ..."

"Oh, alright," John said, budging over so I could crawl in beside him. I needed him to be close, so I pressed my body up against his. He was trembling, from fear of Moriarty or of intimacy(?), I didn't know.

"I'm sorry, John," I whispered, a great hollow space filling my chest, "I'll never let you go again."

John wrapped his arms around me, and before I knew what was happening, he was kissing me on the mouth. He pulled back quickly, though. "Was that okay?" he asked.

I nodded eagerly, not knowing what I wanted except that I wanted him. And to think, it had taken a bomber to show us just that.

"It was more than okay," I answered. "It was - it was perfect, John." I shivered, though I wasn't cold - not in his arms.

"Who would've thought?" John said with a laugh.

I sighed heavily, nuzzling deeper. "As long as we can't bear to let go of each other," I murmured, "We might as well make the most of it."

In those moments, it didn't even matter that I'd gone for so long insisting that I wasn't a sexual being, that John and I didn't have a special something. We'd come together because we were afraid to let each other go, and while that was still the case, we had also come to terms with the fact that we cared deeply - hell, even _loved_ - each other.

Because that's what it was, really - love. You can't just go through something as disturbing as almost watching your friend get blown up and not come out a bit in love with them. I suppose that's what true friendship is - a greater form of love, if you'll pardon my idiotic metaphors.

Suddenly, I was very curious to know if John felt the same. I asked him point-blank if he loved me.

"Of course," John said adamantly. "All the more since you saved my sorry ass."

I laughed. "I know you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, but sometimes - we have to help each other. That's what friends do, right?"

"Yeah," John said. "Definitely."

I snuggled even closer into John's strong chest. "I might actually sleep tonight," I said with a sigh.

"That'll be the first time in what, six days?" John said. I could hear the grin in his voice.

I couldn't help but laugh. "Yeah, probably. But I'll sleep pretty lightly, just in case anything happens."

"Nothing will happen," John insisted. "If Moriarty wanted us dead ... don't you think he would've killed us by now?"

"I'm still puzzling that out," I admitted, and really, I was. "But for, I don't know, five hours, it would be nice to avoid all thought of that blasted man."

"I couldn't agree more."

We made it through the night together without any further disturbances. As time went by, we still continued to care deeply for each other, but we weren't as anxious as we'd been that first night. That didn't stop us from sharing a bed, though (or an embrace) and for that I couldn't have been any happier.


	7. Payback, At Last

_**7) John defending Sherlock when one of the Yarders insults him**_

* * *

Anderson was off on a rampage, being as slimy and unlikeable as ever. I could well understand Sherlock's dislike of him, seeing as he peppered his sentences with "that freak" and "the arrogant sod", obviously directed towards my friend. Sherlock was just standing there, though, a blank expression on his face, but I could tell he was upset by how close he was standing near me - something he did often when he needed to draw comfort from others. I felt the need to say something, to defend him, but I honestly hadn't any idea what words I'd use.

"And the worst part is," Anderson drawled, as several others (Donovan and Dimmock included) gathered around to listen, "He thinks he can just butt his ugly mug in here and take over our crime scenes, when, you know, normal people might be off getting laid or something, but _noooo_, here he is, obnoxious as ever -"

That was it. He'd crossed the line.

"Hey!" I snapped, standing close to the man, "Why don't you shut the hell up?"

"Or what?" Anderson scoffed, glaring down at me. "It's all true, what I've been saying, but you'll just too damn smitten with him to see that -"

I punched him, hard, in the face. He went falling backward, and Donovan and the others were positively pissing their pants. Lestrade came running over, demanding to know what had happened.

"I believe what I did was entirely warranted, Inspector!" I snapped.

"I think we'd all like to punch Anderson in the face, every once in awhile," Lestrade said quietly, grinning in my direction. "What was the problem?"

"He was - insulting Sherlock -"

"Ah, I see." Lestrade rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "In that case, you may as well have punched him harder." He paused. "This won't go on your permanent record, just ... try not to let it happen again."

"Of course."

All this time I hadn't remembered Sherlock standing behind me. I spun around to find him doubled over, consumed by laughter.

"Oh, John!" he guffawed, "That was priceless!"

"I completely lost it when he said -"

"And I'm certainly touched," Sherlock admitted, "I just, well, John - you're a bit stronger than you look - I can say that from experience - so do be gentle with him next time, okay?"

At that we both snorted. "Right, then," I said, taking his gloved hand. I could feel his pulse, bursting with excitement. "Let's head home, shall we? The case is solved, after all."

"And all the loose ends have been tied," Sherlock murmured, still laughing.

* * *

When we got home, Sherlock hardly let me through the sitting-room door before pinning me up against the wall.

"What you did, back there," he said throatily, "Was incredibly sexy."

"You know what?" I said, kissing him on the mouth, "I've been taking note of your fetishes, and one of them is definitely when I'm upset."

"Not upset - definitely not upset," Sherlock insisted. "Defensive, more like. Protective. Like a mother tiger, defending her young."

"Sherlock Holmes, using cornball metaphors? I never thought I'd see the day!"

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock muttered, loosening my belt. "What you did today was so brave. I felt I was witnessing John the Soldier, and it turned me on excessively."

"And seeing you so pleased did just that as well," I murmured, not planning on letting him get away with undressing me - not until I'd gotten him halfway nude, that is. I unbuttoned his shirt very slowly and proceeded to rake my tongue along his sensitive belly. Sherlock let out an exclamation of delight.

"John, _staahp_!" he cried, shuddering.

"You - know why I - did that - today - don't you?" I said between licks.

"Because you love me?" Sherlock said eagerly.

"Well, obviously! Now let's get upstairs where we'll be more comfortable so we can really misbehave."

The line was cheesy, and I knew it, but that was another one of Sherlock's secret fetishes - silly romantic lines. Besides, how could he resist me now - Big, Brave John, who'd gone into battle, just for him?

Resistance was futile, of course.


	8. Marking His Territory

_**8) Possessive!Sherlock wants to mark John as his with a tattoo. John agrees.**_

* * *

"You said the other day you were considering getting a tattoo."

"Yes ... ?"

Sherlock grinned up at me from his chair, looking too devious for his own good. "Well, seeing as we'll not be leaving each other anytime soon, there must be some way to, er, put my mark on you ..."

"You put your mark on me every night in the bedroom."

Sherlock waved a hand. "That's not what I meant," he said. "I want this tattoo of yours to show that you're with me. I want to mark you as mine, in the form of a -"

"Sherlock, for Christ's sake!" I said, laughing. "Don't be ridiculous. I thought we agreed I'm doing the wings, remember?"

"The wings are sophomoric," Sherlock grumbled. "And they would look ridiculous on a thirty-six year old man. I'm telling you, John, for your own good - get something suitable, meaningful. Get something that has to do with me."

I laughed again, but the sound was much more squeaky this time. Even I couldn't hide my nervousness. "Like what?"

"Give me time to mull it over." A moment passed, and Sherlock broke out into a small smile. "I've got it."

"I swear to God, Sherlock, if it's something outlandish -"

"Oh, get over yourself," he muttered, waving a hand. "It's fine. You'll get it on the inside of your wrist - nothing fancy -"

"You can't tell me what to do," I said, knowing that arguing was hopeless. Sherlock Holmes had an uncanny way of getting what he wanted.

"I suppose you want to know what I have in mind," Sherlock said.

"Well, yeah!"

He told me, and I'll be honest, I could hardly disagree. It was quite possibly the cutest thing I'd ever heard. I broke out into a goofy grin after he told me.

"Okay, okay!" I said. "I'll do it! You happy?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, steepling his fingers. "I've already set up an appointment for three o' clock."

"_Sherlock!_"

* * *

The process was very painful, especially since they were doing it on my wrist, but it was over fairly quickly, seeing as the tattoo was small. All I could do when it was done was stare at my tattoo in wonder.

It was a smiley face, far too similar to the one on our wall, with the characters SH + JW on bottom. I blushed madly, far too happy at the idea of having Sherlock's mark on me, and incredibly surprised that he hadn't suggested I graft his bloody face on my back or something.

"Well, John?" Sherlock said, appearing out of nowhere.

"It's wonderful," I said, kissing his cheek. "I'll admit, I'm surprised." I paused. "But you know what? I don't think this is entirely fair, unless you get one yourself."

"I already did, while you were getting yours," Sherlock said, pulling up his sleeve to reveal the exact same tattoo.

"_Sherlock_," I said, beaming. "You're absolutely adorable."

He shrugged. "I try." He looked at me closely. "You know, I suppose it'll help, in a way. Every time I feel tempted to use a nicotine patch, or whatever, I'll remember how much ... how much you love me, and I won't do it. One glance at my wrist will be enough."

"Sherlock Holmes," I said, "That's quite possibly the most endearing thing I've ever heard."

Before I knew what was happening, or who'd started it, we were kissing madly. The tattoo guy was clearing his throat, and only then did I remember that I hadn't paid yet.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said, fishing his wallet out of his jacket, "I've got it."

"I suppose this means I'm buying groceries again," I grumbled.

"But you love me, so it hardly matters," Sherlock said, pulling on his coat.

I nodded. Even if I hadn't gotten a tattoo in his honor that day, there certainly wouldn't be any doubt of that.


	9. The Red Shirt of Seduction

_* Inspired by the Purple Shirt of Sex, of course ... because surely Sherlock has an even broader variety of colors? *_

* * *

**__****9) dom!John and sub!Sherlock, simple as that**

* * *

I'll be honest, I absolutely love it when John bosses me around. Sure, I like to assert myself at first, insisting that I'm the alpha male in the flat, but John almost always finds a way to get what he wants. He's a hard man to say no to, that's for sure.

It started off fairly innocent at first. John would occasionally make me eat something, or tell me to put away my experiments and get some rest, things like that. I enjoyed it, knowing that he'd be there to keep me going. It was calming. It helped keep my mind clear, something I sorely needed.

Things eventually took a turn, though ... a turn for the erotic.

I started feeling needy, God knows why. I wasn't just satisfied complying with John's domestic fancies any longer. Sure, I'd still carry them out, but I needed _more_. And, I'll admit, I was too shy (can you believe it!?) to directly ask for sex, so I did everything in my power to get him to notice me. He'd been pretty preoccupied with work, though, so he hadn't had the time - until I pulled out the newly-named 'Red Shirt of Seduction', that is.

It was just the same as all my other button-ups, but it was a moderate shade of scarlet. I'd bought it the weekend before, but hadn't found the opportunity to wear it (it was such a change from my normally subdued tones). Finally, though, I'd found my chance.

I sat at the kitchen table, immersing myself in an experiment, all the while listening for John to enter the room. I finally heard the creaking of the floorboards, a solid step that could only be his.

"John," I said, looking up.

His eyes shot down to my midsection, widening in surprise, his mouth curving up with barely suppressed excitement.

"Damn you, Sherlock Holmes," he said, positively salivating. Eventually he got ahold of himself - though not entirely. "Bedroom. Now."

"But _John_ -" I fake-protested.

"Do it," John ordered, pointing at finger at the staircase. I smiled coyly and made my way upstairs, a small grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. Sure, John Watson had me in a submissive position (he always did, now that I think of it), but I knew how to play him like a stringed instrument. It was one of my professional skills, if you will.

"Now," John said, closing the bedroom door behind us, "Where in hell did you get such a gorgeous shirt? You look like a Greek god or something."

"The same place that I get all my shirts -" I began, but before I knew what was happening, John was unbuttoning it, raking his tongue along my middle. I let out a rather unmasculine cry.

"J-John!"

"Why do you do this to me?" John moaned, guiding me towards the bed. "Oh, I suppose there's a method to your madness. There always is. But you know what, Sherlock Holmes? You really are an expert at turning me on."

"That's always the intention," I said slyly.

"And you always succeed."

John had me on the bed, my pants about my ankles, my red shirt thrown aside with little care. He pressed himself up against me, hard. My head fell back, and I let out a sheer cry of delight.

"Fuck me," I begged.

"Not tonight," he said, his voice dripping with seduction that a normal person wouldn't have credited to him, "I have to go back to work in a half hour. I just wanted to come back for a little while and, well - have my fun with you."

I shuddered with excitement. "I'll wait up for you. I promise."

"I know you will, and that's why I'm saving a special something for when I return. In any case, don't wear that red shirt too often, okay?"

"Why not?"

"I think the reason I like it so much is because you've never worn anything like it. I want it to be a rarity."

"Okay."

John snuggled up close to me, grinning from ear to ear. "Why do you let me boss you around, anyway?" he asked suddenly.

"You hardly -"

"Oh, save it, you know I do."

"Because I like it," I admitted, knowing it to be true. I explained how I liked the structure of it all, knowing he'd be there, that he was looking out for me, that he cared. That he wanted me.

"Of course I _want_ you, Sherlock," John laughed, planting a sloppy kiss on my cheek. "You can always count on me." He glanced over at the clock. "I'm late for work," he said. "Oh, well. Better call in with a sudden illness or something."

I laughed. "Are we still on for tonight?"

"You bet we're still on."

And so the evening commenced, (in my case) in a state of submissive bliss. And in all honesty, I couldn't have asked for anything better.


	10. I'll Always Be There

_**10) Kidnapped!Sherlock with a concussion**_

* * *

All I remember from before, really, is a blunt pain in the back of my head, then falling down, down, and smacking my head even harder on the floor. Addleston was dragging me across the ground when I passed out, and until he got me far enough away, I was completely unconscious.

I'm awake now, though I'm in a ridiculous amount of pain. I'm dirty, mostly due to being dragged, but there's a dull throbbing in the back of my head that won't go away. I could've died from the blow, I realize that, but now I suppose it's hopeless. I haven't a clue where I am, and I can't do anything about my situation ...

That's the problem with working alone, I suppose - when you actually _do_ get in trouble, there's no one there to fish you out. And even if there were, your pride won't allow it.

Mine won't, anyway.

But no - what am I saying? I have John. John will get me out of this. He always comes to the rescue, somehow, in some way.

But for now, I'm chained to this metal pipe by a surprisingly thick pair of handcuffs, at an awkward angle, no less. I fight against my bonds, though naturally it doesn't do anything. Why do I bother? This is utterly hopeless. It's not like I haven't been kidnapped before, but I've never had a concussion, not once. Was that a concussion? I'm not up on my medical information, that's John's job.

_John_.

Oh, God.

It all comes back to him.

My heart positively aches when I think about him potentially getting hurt, because God knows he'll try to find me, but Addleston may be too good, even for him; I really couldn't say. For God's sake, though, if that bloody criminal hurts him in any way, he'll never get away while living, that's for sure.

I wait an impossibly long time, but sure enough, the door bursts open, and there's John, with several of the Yard, to my rescue. _Thank God Anderson's not here,_ I think deliriously.

John comes running towards me, prying my cuffs loose and pulling me into a strong embrace.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, how did this happen - ?"

"I - I couldn't -" I make to continue (though surely it would've just been a bunch of babbling), but I find myself unable; I pass out again.

I fall into John's arms, though, so I know I'm safe.

* * *

I'm in hospital, strapped up to a bunch of medical contraptions. The doctor sees that I'm awake and ushers in John and Lestrade.

"Sherlock, you git!" John reprimands, "You should've called me in! You do realize that Addleston is a complete psychopath, don't you!?"

I laugh shakily. "I'm fine."

"No you're not!" John insists. "You have a double concussion - though God knows how you survived it!"

"Addleston was an idiot, though," I murmur, not entirely sure what I'm saying. "Besides, I knew you'd find me."

"No you didn't," John scoffs. "You can't be so sure."

I remember looking hurt, and John positively breaking down, stepping over to the bed and pulling me into his arms. A strangled sob escapes his chest. John doesn't cry often, so I know that he's really upset. I feel bad.

"I'm sorry," I say, "But I couldn't exactly call you in, could I? Addleston appeared out of nowhere, right in the flat - what was I supposed to do?"

"I was upstairs, you idiot," he grumbles, kissing along the line of my jaw. "Don't - ever - scare - me like that - again," he says, pausing between words to kiss me. Despite the throbbing pain in my head, I find enjoyment in his going all mother-hen on me, as I always do.

Lestrade clears his throat. "Perhaps I'll, er, leave you two to it, then?"

"Good idea," I say, smiling weakly.

Once the DI is gone, John looks me over. "You're a complete ass," he mutters.

"Yes, I think we've established just about every array of insults, John."

"No - I don't mean that," John says quickly. "Look - I was just worried, okay? I don't know if I've been so afraid since Reichenbach. I just - I can't afford to lose you again, Sherlock. I just can't." Another sob.

"Oh, God - John ..." I'm crying now, too, and I can't blame the concussion for it. I truly feel his pain, and besides, the idea of losing him, just the same ... it would be too much to bear.

We hold each other tight for a very long time. Eventually John pulls away, taking a deep breath.

"I almost got the chance to punch that horrible man in the face, but Lestrade wouldn't allow it."

I let out a bark of genuine laughter. "Well, it was worth a shot."

"Trial's tomorrow, though it ought to be over fairly soon. You're enough evidence as it is."

"I suppose so."

"I only get ten minutes, they said," John says, glancing at his watch. "I'd better be going, but - Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"You can count on me, alright? Even if I'm not there right away, well, I'll ... I'll get there, I promise."

"Thank you," I say, truly meaning it.

John leaves, and once again, I'm alone. Not lonely, though - not like I was before.

I'm safe now, and I've got my best friend and lover just outside. It doesn't even matter, really, that I've got a splitting headache to boot - I know I'll be fine, in the end. I haven't always been, but this time I will be.


	11. Just for Starters

_**11) John teaches foreplay to Sherlock**_

* * *

"John?"

"_Ye-es?_"

"What are you doing?"

"Smelling your hair."

"I'm in the middle of an experiment."

I roll my eyes. "Sherlock, I would've thought you'd -"

"Not now. Busy. Later."

But later never comes. I'm not kidding when I say that: _never_. Sherlock's never been interested in sex, and I don't know why - not even now that we're together. It shouldn't bother me - our love is so much more than that - but there are days that all I want to do is appreciate him, make him feel appreciated ... and he puts up the barriers before I can do anything.

There's always an excuse.

And this time it's so that he can look at slides on a microscope.

"Come on, Sherlock," I insist, "I'm positively horny right now."

"John," Sherlock says, turning to me with a roll of his eyes, "I love you, you know that. I'm just - I'm not interested in making things physical ... ever, really."

I stand back, incredulous. "_Why?_"

"I've never understood what's so gratifying about doing so, in a relationship."

"You speak as though from experience."

"I had several partners at University," he admits with a shrug, "And, as long as we're being honest, it was nothing mind-blowing. It was ... okay. That's the only word I can think to describe it."

I am a bit taken aback. "But _Sherlock_," I say, "Those were just some forgettable blokes at Uni. They weren't ... well, they were probably just using you, you know? I don't blame them, who wouldn't be tempted? - but still. I'm so madly in love with you, and I want to express that somehow."

"You express it every day," Sherlock says, looking honestly appreciative. "I just - I don't know if I want to try -"

I touch a hand to his back, keeping him in balance, while I kiss the line along his jaw. He shudders almost imperceptibly.

"This is nice," he admits.

"Just think of how much more I could offer you," I say, surprised that I'm actually getting away with this. I pull him up from the kitchen table, slowly guiding him to the sitting room. I unbutton his shirt and feel his heartbeat. It's fast and uneven. He's nervous.

"Is this okay?" I ask, just to be sure.

Sherlock nods. "This is already - much better - not that I'm comparing - oh!" he exclaims, as my hand finds its way down into his pants. "Perhaps it would be easier, John -" he says, as I press up against him, "If you unbuttoned them a little."

I laugh, low and rumbling. "Didn't take much to convince you," I murmur.

"Well, you're John. You're different."

I grin, still in a state of surprise.

I make a point of learning every inch of him - every inch of that beautiful body of his. His long, thin, subtly muscular frame, where he's ticklish, where he most likes to be touched. I know that whenever I'm dealing in foreplay I always find my physical abilities heightened, even though it's an emotional experience. I wonder if he feels that way, too.

Sherlock lets out an uninhibited shiver. "J-Jawn," he gasps, "This - it's too much."

I pull back from massaging his tender area. "That's enough for tonight," I suggest, looking up at him. He looks confused.

"No - John - that's not what I meant!" he insists. "By all means, continue. I'm just, well ... I haven't done this in years. And it's never been like this. It's invigorating."

"I'm glad to hear it," I say, grinning devilishly and applying my hands to him again.

Eventually we'll have sex, I suppose. That's what comes after, usually. I'll just have to be patient, though this is certainly enough.

Besides, like I said before, I don't imagine Sherlock's used to having every inch of his body loved, adored, and appreciated, so for now I'll focus on that. We'll take the leap when he's ready, which might not be for awhile.

All that really matters is, in this moment we're both perfectly content.


	12. A Healthy Release

_**12) Sherlock crying during climax**_

* * *

The first time Sherlock did it, I was beyond worried. Hell, I still get worried about it, even now that it doesn't happen - well, not nearly as often, that is.

Because, you see, Sherlock during sex is something completely out of this world - as in, he cries, especially when he comes.

The first time we had sex, I was certainly climaxing, but I could sense Sherlock was holding something back. I asked him about it when we were done.

"I'm not emotionally ready to go that far yet," was his only explanation.

I shrugged it off at the time as just him being Sherlock, who typically avoided overly-emotional experiences like the plague. Eventually, though, when we were in bed together, I got him to come, hard. Once it had happened, he rolled over and started sobbing.

"J-J-John," he sniffled, "I'm s-sorry."

"What are you sorry about? Jesus, Sherlock!" I exclaimed, crawling over to him and holding him close. Sherlock turned to me, teary-eyed and completely lost for control.

"This - this experience," he wept, "It's - a very emotional thing - I just - I can't -"

"You can do this, love," I murmured, stroking his dark curls. "My question is, are you enjoying yourself? I know you're crying, I just -"

"Yes ... I still like it. I just don't know if I'll ever be prepared for - such a - "

"Yes, I understand," I said softly, touching my mouth to the line of his part.

I soon realized, however, that Sherlock crying during climax was just something that happened, every time. As though he were in a great amount of pain, or afraid, or ... well, I wasn't sure. After about the fifth time, I asked him straight-out what was bothering him so much.

"I'm truly worried," I told him. "I don't want to do this if it hurts you, okay?"

"No, no, it's good," Sherlock insisted, wiping away a stray tear. "I'm just, well - sex allows me to release so much. So many hormones, or some rubbish like that - I don't know what the exact words are. It's good. It's an emotional experience, I'll say that much."

"I don't like seeing you upset every time we -"

"I'm not upset, though, not really. I'm just allowing myself to relax a little. You of all people should know I could do that more often."

I pushed a stray curl back from his eyes (his hair was really getting far too long). "If I didn't know that, where the hell would I be?" I paused for a moment. "It's natural to let loose, per se, during sex, but - does it have to be sad? I'm not telling you what to do, Sherlock, I'm just thinking - can't it be pleasurable, too?"

"I - of course," Sherlock answered. "I'm just - fairly new at this, and I, well ... I'm sure it'll get better, John. I promise."

And so it did. It happened naturally, too. Sherlock's crying eventually became whimpers, which turned to moans, which turned to full-on orgasms in which he let out cries of pure enjoyment. The evolution took awhile, but made me happy to see; it's the way things should've been (not that I'm saying things could only be a certain way, but still). I wanted him to enjoy the experience, and to release the emotion in a healthy manner, and that's exactly what he ended up doing, in the end.

* * *

Several months later we had sex, just like any other night.

This time, however, was different.

Once I got him to come (hard, I might add), he let out an anguished cry and fell back into bed, breathing heavily.

He wasn't crying, though.

Oh, God ... yes he was.

He was turned on his side, sobbing away.

_Oh my God._

I crawled over to him, turning him over gently. "Sherlock ... ?"

But no, he wasn't crying. He was laughing.

"That - was - _fantastic_!" he exclaimed, his low, rumbling baritone ragged and excited. "Again, John! Again!"

"You're absolutely mad, that's what you are," I said, rolling my eyes. "I never know how you're going to react when we go that far."

"That's the fun part!" Sherlock said, laughing as he tackled me back onto the sheets.

I rolled my eyes good-naturedly. I really did like the idea of sex being an emotional experience - that's what it was for the both of us, after all - but I could really tell Sherlock got a lot out of it. It made me happy, though, to see that releasing emotion no longer constituted crying bitterly.

It's interesting: I don't think I've ever seen Sherlock so compromised as when we're together like that. Sure, it's unsettling, but it makes me happy for him, even when it all just boils down to our laughing together.

Because you know what? He deserves to let himself go just like anybody else, and I'm glad I'm here to help him do that.


	13. With the Utmost Delicacy

_**13) Anything at all to do with Sherlock's violin ...**_

* * *

The way he practically caresses it, evokes beautiful, powerful music from it ... the way his long fingers hold the bow, the handle ... it's so delicate, and yet, so infuriating.

I'll bet that if Sherlock would ever give in and allow me to make love to him, he'd hold me like he holds his violin.

That's the problem: we're together, but Sherlock hasn't been ready to have sex yet, which I suppose is okay, except for the fact that he does the aforementioned with his violin far too often. It's not that I don't want him to do this anymore - God, no! - I just wish that he'd apply his delicate fingers to me in a similar manner.

He never would, though, because I have a feeling he'll never be ready.

* * *

"John?" Sherlock said one morning as he tuned that blasted Stradivarius. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," I grumbled.

"Whenever I'm about to play, you give me that look. You didn't used to do that before, so unless I have grown to annoy you with my playing, I don't understand -"

Before I knew what was happening, I was explaining how, er - how _jealous_ I was. It was highly embarrassing, but eventually I was able to admit it: how I couldn't stand watching him hold the beautiful instrument, take such good care of it the way he did, when he couldn't even be bothered to touch me.

"Oh ... _John_," Sherlock inhaled a shallow breath. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know you felt that way."

"Please, Sherlock?" I begged. "Won't you touch me like you - like you -"

"Like I touch my violin," he said, his voice a rumbling purr. He stepped closer to me, touching a hand to my cheek. I was far too aware of each individual finger, holding me gently but firmly. It was enough to make me let out a small, desirous moan.

"Sherlock - when will we ever - ?"

"Today, right this very moment," Sherlock said. "No hard fucking or anything - not for our first time. This time, I'm going to be very gentle with you, as though you were something breakable. Besides, John ... I want to take care of you. I want you to enjoy this."

"I already do," I said, positively shuddering when Sherlock placed a hand between my legs.

Eventually, our clothes were off (though we couldn't be bothered to make it to the bedroom in time), and Sherlock had his hands all over me, rubbing the sensitive areas in small, determined circles. He even went so far as to rake his tongue along my body, until I was shivering and groaning with absolute pleasure.

"You - don't do this - to your violin -" I practically squealed as Sherlock licked my far-too-sensitive navel.

"Sod my violin," Sherlock murmured, touching a hand to my cock and squeezing gently. "This is about you now, and only you."

We went on for some time in that manner. We never actually got to the sex part, but foreplay proved to be enough for me, at least in those moments. I was just happy that Sherlock had shown me the same care as he showed that violin of his.

It had always fascinated me, in a way. Sherlock, who was all hard edges and prickliness, could be so gentle with the things that mattered to him. I suppose that's what I really wanted, in the end: for him to treat me like I mattered. Because according to him, I certainly did, and a thousand violins would never replace his 'Jaaawn'. I remember positively blushing at those words, which, although quite over-the-top, were ones he truly meant.

The next morning, Sherlock was playing his violin by the window as I got us both coffee. It was sweet to see.

It was sweet to know that he'd handled me with just as much delicacy as he handled that beautiful stringed instrument - because I mattered to him that much.

I don't think I've ever felt quite so flattered in all my life.


	14. An Unexpected Member

_The last few chapters haven't been nearly kinky (or gross) enough, so here's by way of apologizing!_

* * *

_**14) John finds something even more unexpected than a head in the fridge**_

* * *

Heads? Normal.

Thumbs? Commonplace!

But _this?_

Oh, God. It was too much.

"SHERLOCK!" I shouted, after I'd finally regained my voice, "I don't bloody want to know about this! Just take it out and return it to the morgue, okay!?"

Sherlock entered the room, looking innocent. "What are you blithering about?" he asked.

"For God's sake, there's a penis in the fridge! I've about had it with all these experiments - I mean, why on Earth -"

My friend shrugged. "I don't know why it's there," he said demurely, "Though perhaps whoever put it there had a purpose."

"This isn't funny, Sherlock."

"Perhaps the person who put it there was feeling as though he were getting the 'cold shoulder' in the sex department," Sherlock said, batting his eyelashes in a very sarcastic manner, "Hence the cold dick ... in the _fridge_."

"You're the absolute worst at creating symbolic meaning," I said, unable to suppress a laugh. "But you know I've been busy lately, don't you? No, of course you know. You're just acting needy."

"What's more important, work ... or me?" Sherlock asked, his voice dripping like chocolate. I was completely turned on as well as tempted to roll my eyes. I did the latter, and acted on the former.

"Only if you'll clean the fridge out. Right now."

Sherlock grumbled petulantly as he proceeded to remove everything (but especially the penis) from the fridge. He packed it all into a case and turned to me expectantly.

"I don't even want it in the house," I said, shuddering (just the thought of it disgusted me). "Go down to the morgue and dispose of it properly."

He was there and back in record time, perking up when he met my gaze.

"Hopefully not all the symbolism was lost on you, John. Not with that hard, solid -"

"Alright, alright! Christ." I stepped towards him and proceeded to unbutton his shirt, raking my tongue along his middle as per usual. We hadn't done this in awhile, though, so Sherlock was getting far more out of it than he would've if we'd done this every day. He positively shuddered when I unbuttoned his pants. I soon realized that what was beneath the zipper had the exact opposite feeling (and look) of the specimen I'd seen in the refrigerator - thank God for that.

Once again, as usual, we didn't even make it up to the bedroom. The fire in the sitting-room was warm, and we were perfectly happy to go at it right then and there, on the rug.

"Sherlock," I said gruffly, meeting him dead in the eye.

"_Ye-es_, John?"

"If you bring home anything like that again, I'll give you nothing for a month."

"Your loss."

"Oh, please. You're the one who came groveling to me this time."

"_Touche_."

"That's right, pal. You're beaten, again."

"Okay ..." Sherlock said, pretending to be glum, "But we have to reach an agreement, you understand? No letting your bloody office job get so far in between us."

I wasn't the only one who'd made a point that night. Sure, Sherlock's method of getting my attention had been, er, _unorthodox_, but he'd certainly been right about how our relationship stood. I'd been putting in far too many hours lately, and not nearly enough of those were going towards him.

"John?" Sherlock asked, for I'd been pondering what he'd said.

"Yes, of course," I said adamantly. "It's a deal."

Once we'd settled the matter and had it behind us, we were free to go back to our activities, which was nice. And really, in a way, opening the fridge to find what I'd found had prepared me for just about anything. Nothing could surprise me now.

I didn't tell Sherlock that, though, because I knew he'd find a way to get me good, and it certainly wouldn't be anything of the cold, phallic variety. He'd find something much worse, and quite frankly, that's a door I'd rather not open.

High-functioning sociopath, my arse. Sherlock Holmes was completely psychotic.

Which I suppose was just fine by me.


	15. Cold Snap

**_15) A good old-fashioned hypothermia!fic_**

* * *

_TRIGGER WARNING:__ non-con/rape_

* * *

When the lights in the cellar (or freezer, I don't really know what to call it) flickered on, I found myself staring back at Sherlock himself, my shock reflected on his face. We both woke up in the same room - not cuffed, thank God - but naturally the downside was being kidnapped at all, as well as being stark nude and freezing.

Sherlock looked down at his naked frame, very startled. I wondered what could be so shocking (our kidnapper was notorious for stripping his victims bare), until I suddenly remembered, to my horror: Sherlock had woken up at a party long ago at Uni with his pants around his legs and a throbbing pain between them. He'd been under the influence then, and our kidnapper had drugged us just prior to the actual kidnapping, so to make the leap to rape wasn't crazy, but it wasn't something I wanted to think about.

"Sherlock, are you hurting?" I demanded, scooting close.

He shook his head, but didn't speak - a sure sign that he was afraid.

"Harrison isn't known for harming his victims, except for the freezing," I insisted. "You're fine, you hear me? Absolutely fine." I knew I was trying just as much to convince myself as I was my friend.

To my surprise (as if anything could surprise me anymore) tears formed in Sherlock's eyes, freezing there, as our bodies eventually would.

"I don't know what's happened, John," he said quietly, "And I don't like that. It terrifies me."

I nodded, feeling true sympathy for him, but all the while very aware that it was getting even colder in the room. "Scoot closer," I suggested, surprisingly calm, under the circumstances. "I left a sign for Lestrade, so hopefully he hauls arse down here and, well - you know."

Sherlock nodded, crawling on trembling limbs into my embrace. The setup worked; we were much warmer, but the room was still getting cold. Eventually our fingers began to numb, and our teeth chattered.

"W-we won't d-d-die," Sherlock insisted. "W-we never s-s-seem to, you know."

I nodded, chuckling cynically. "If only b-bloody Lestrade would h-hurry up."

Sherlock laughed. "I don't f-fancy him finding us in such a s-s-state, though."

We stayed close together, naked bodies pressed up against each other for warmth. Sherlock began to whimper, presumably at the idea that Harrison had harmed him - or me, for that matter. I stroked his hair gently, assuring him that we would've had more than a feeling if such a thing had happened. I couldn't blame him for being scared, though. He'd once admitted to me that the thing that frightened him most was being taken advantage of, sexually or otherwise, but he admitted that night that freezing to death came in at a close second.

"B-but I'm w-with you," he said, teeth clacking. "S-so I suppose it's n-not so b-b-bad."

At that moment, Lestrade & Co. burst into the cellar, catching us in our embrace. We weren't the least embarrassed, though (well, okay, maybe a little). They handed us blankets and spare clothing, so Sherlock and I piled layer upon layer and went to sit in the back of the ambulance positioned outside.

"Harrison's been caught," Lestrade, who hadn't seem the least fazed by our nakedness, said. "But I can't take all the credit, of course. You both risked your lives to bring him in. And John, without your little sign, I wouldn't have known where the hell you both were."

Sherlock was positively beaming. "You saved us both," he said simply.

I beamed right back. "We could've died, though."

"But we didn't."

"Alright, then, save the lovey-dovey stuff for when I'm gone, okay?" Lestrade said with a grin - and a prompt exit from the area.

"I wasn't thinking clearly, in there," Sherlock said defensively. "Of course Harrison hadn't harmed either of us. I have no idea what I was thinking."

"It was a legitimate fear, Sherlock, especially for you, with what happened at Uni -"

Before I knew what was happening, Sherlock was kissing me, long and hard. His lips were soft and quivering with emotion.

"None of that matters, now," he said. "I'm just glad we didn't freeze in there. I have a ridiculous phobia of freezing - or simply being cold, you know. It's why I were a such bloody thick coat in the middle of summer."

I laughed, though I wasn't entirely sure if he was serious or not. "Once again, a legitimate fear, especially with London's unpredictable weather."

We both shared a laugh at that, soon after being called over by Donovan to provide some information. All the while I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that we very well might've died that night. We'd have been together, though, so our fates wouldn't have been nearly as bad.

Still, I'm glad we lived, all the same. Life was a precious gift that I wasn't eager to give up, especially with the knowledge that I'd have Sherlock Holmes by my side for the rest of it.


	16. The Last Meow

_**16) Sherlock in cat-ears**_

* * *

All Hallow's Eve was approaching, and John had been scouring the costume department, looking for just the right pair.

The right pair of cat-ears, that is.

Naturally he wasn't going to wear them. He was going to force Sherlock to put them on - but not in order to hand out candy to the children. No ... John had much naughtier things in mind than that.

Next to the ears was the perfect add-on - a tail! John grew very excited. Why not just have Sherlock go full-out, after all? If he was able to get his friend into the ears, why not the latter?

John made his way back to Baker Street, very pleased with his purchase.

"_Sher_-lock!" he singsonged.

"What's gotten into you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Look what I've bought!"

"Your Halloween costume?"

"No. Yours."

Sherlock looked utterly flabbergasted. "I couldn't possibly hand out treats in such atrocious attire," he insisted.

"No, we're going to stay in tonight and commit all sorts of horrible acts, all while you're dressed like a kitten," John said, grinning like a loon.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Some things are better left to the imagination, John."

"Think of this as an experiment."

Sherlock's ears perked up. Experiment? He liked the idea. Besides, if dressing up like a cat got John aroused, the sex would be all the better. It was only for those reasons that he eventually agreed.

* * *

That evening, while Mrs. Hudson passed out candy, Sherlock donned the ridiculous 'costume' and scowled at himself in the mirror. He looked awful, though - wait - perhaps if he stripped down a little, he'd look a bit attractive ...

There. That was better.

Sherlock admired himself in the mirror. He looked sleek and very feline, with his dark curls and his lithe frame. The ears weren't actually that bad of an idea. He thought of all the characters he'd seen on telly trying to be sexy in such attire, and tried out some of the techniques himself - one of which involved throwing out a claw and letting out a small growl. Much better.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in there?" John asked, entering.

Sherlock almost blushed, but held it in at the last moment. He flashed John a devilish look and let out a rumbling purr.

John practically wet his pants. "Jesus, you're fantastic," he gasped, knees shaking.

"Bed. Right now," Sherlock ordered, his tail swishing behind him.

John didn't have to be told twice. Once they were in the bedroom, Sherlock very aggressively tore off his lover's clothes and set about doing his worst.

"You think you're the only one with any control around here?" he said, his voice deep and throaty. "Think again."

John let out a string of expletives, ending in "fuck me, _please_."

Sherlock let out a small laugh. "Am I really so different with a pair of ears and a tail, John? Tell me honestly."

"Different, but - just as good. Very just as good."

"You're making no sense," Sherlock said with another growl, "Though I suppose I rather like you that way."

Sherlock did his best to pleasure John, which was certainly more than enough, judging by the exhausted cries for more and by how wet the bedsheets ended up being. Eventually John fell back, completely wiped out, even though Sherlock had been doing most of the work.

"I never would've pegged you for one with an animal fetish, John," he said, grinning wickedly.

"That's not what it is," John insisted, breathing hard. "It's a seeing-you-in-those-bloody-ears fetish."

"Same thing." Sherlock licked a hand (or rather, a paw). "It's too bad they don't have hedgehog costumes in stores."

"_Hedgehog_ costumes? Sherlock, what - ?"

"No one's ever told you you'd make the most adorable hedgehog known to mankind?"

"I don't know what the hell you're talking about." John paused. "As long as we're talking animals, you make the most undeniably attractive kitten I've ever seen."

"I should hope." Sherlock curled up at John's side, tossing the ears and tail to the floor. "But enough with the satisfaction of whims. I want to sleep, and I want to do it in your arms."

"Fair enough," John said, grinning as Sherlock curled into his side. Cat-ears or not, he was still very much the feline, and John was very much grateful for that. But then again, it was hard to make Sherlock much cuter, and he had to admit he was satisfied with his friend just the way he was.

John fell asleep, planning all the while to look up hedgehog costumes online (if such things even existed). Sherlock was in for a very big surprise the next time they got intimate together, that was for sure.


	17. Exercise At Its Finest

**17) John can't stop staring at the bulge in Sherlock's ... _shorts!?_**

* * *

I've been telling Sherlock for ages that a bit of exercise would do him good, but he's always just told me to shove off - that he's thin enough. He certainly is, but sitting around the flat all day hardly equals being the epitome of health. "Besides," I'd told him, "It'll be a fun hobby, you know, between cases. Exercising, I mean."

With a roll of the eyes, Sherlock allowed me to get him a gym membership, admitting that perhaps it wasn't a bad idea. So now we're off to the gym for the first time, and halfway towards our destination, Sherlock's head shoots up as though he's remembered something.

"I haven't anything to exercise in," he says.

"Don't worry, they've got stuff you can borrow there."

"Oh ... well ..." Sherlock looks a bit put off by the idea.

"Well, I told you about this in advance; you could've bought something for yourself. Or borrowed from me."

"For God's sake, John, I wouldn't be caught dead in -"

"Shaddup," I say, before he can finish insulting my clothes.

We reach the fitness center. Everyone is exercising and everyone is healthy. It's rather intimidating at first, but I don't let it get to me. We swipe our cards and enter the locker room, where I get changed. Sherlock stands about, looking perplexed.

"Where is the spare clothing?" he demands.

"Well, they don't exactly give out clothes, so - er, I mean, the Lost & Found is your best bet."

"The _Lost & Found?_" Sherlock practically gags. "John!"

"Tough luck. It's right across the hall; go find something."

Sherlock returns several moments later with a white shirt that looks acceptable and a pair of shorts(!?) that are entirely too tight. He puts them on anyway, preening in front of the mirror.

Now, you'd think such a pair of shorts would look absolutely atrocious, but ... oh, God. They're just the opposite. I mean, sure, they look pretty ridiculous, but with that came a huge amount of appeal. I've never actually seen him in shorts before, though of course I know well enough of his long, thin legs ...

Sherlock turns away from the mirror, though, and I'm struck dumb by none other than the massive bulge in those tight shorts of his.

"Sherlock!" I exclaim, going red. "Why don't we go right back home and get a new pair -"

"Problem?" Sherlock asks, and in that moment, I know he's completely aware of the bulge himself. It's almost as though he chose the shorts just to show it off ... but no, he wouldn't do that. Not in public, anyway.

At least, I don't _think_ so.

"Are you seriously considering working out in that?" I gasp, feeling a bit jealous already. Anyone could look down and see enough for one day - absolutely anyone! I blush madly again.

"Something bothering you, John?" Sherlock says, stepping close and pressing that bulge into my own. He kisses my fondly. "Don't you ... approve of my choice of attire?"

"Absolutely not!" I cry. "Surely there was a better pair in that bloody Lost & Found -"

"Nope, nothing!" Sherlock laughs gleefully. "Though there _was_ a pair of sweatpants -"

"Put them on. Now."

"Jealous, are we?" Sherlock coos.

"Sherlock!"

"Alright, fine!" Sherlock grumbles. "I just wanted to see how you'd react." He makes his way to the door.

"No, I'll get them," I say, stepping out and returning with the pants in question. "Don't do that to me in public again," I grouch.

"No one's even in here."

"I don't even know what you were trying to do, Sherlock! You know I'm completely mad about you; what's getting me jealous going to solve?"

"I like seeing you so flustered. It's rather invigorating."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

I lunge out; Sherlock bolts. I chase him about the locker room, and even up to the weight-room, where we get loads of strange looks, which I suppose we deserve. In the end, we don't even end up working out. Running after Sherlock like a madman is more than enough exercise for one day.


	18. Back to School

_**18) Schoolmates' reunion**_

* * *

"I can't do this."

"Nonsense. This'll be good for you."

"They all hated me. They won't want to see me back."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone's dying for a glimpse of the famous Sherlock Holmes. You'll be the talk of the school!"

I suppose John had a point, though I was loath to admit it. We were back at my old University for the ten-year class reunion (at John's insistence) and to say that I was dreading it would be a vast understatement. He promised me we'd only stay a couple hours, but I knew if anything he'd keep me there twice as long. Everyone lately seemed to want in on my private life - including John - and apparently that constituted seeing my old school and my former classmates.

The first girl we ran into was unfamiliar to me. That didn't stop her from starting a conversation.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed, holding out a hand. I didn't shake it. "You remember me? Victoria Evans?"

I wracked my brains. "Must've deleted you," I muttered.

"Sherlock!" John insisted, while Victoria merely looked confused.

"You're quite the sensation as of late," the girl preened, tossing back her hair. "What've you been up to, anyway? Besides saving the world, that is."

Suddenly it hit me. Victoria Evans - she'd dated Geoff, the one who'd made a point of calling me a 'useless freak' every day in Chemistry. It's not as though she'd stood up for me, either - though whether or not I'd have wanted her help, I'm not sure. I looked upon her with even more scorn.

"Tori, dearest, who are you - oh? Sherlock Holmes!" the man in question appeared, grinning broadly. "Pleasure to see you again!"

"The feeling is not mutual," I said blandly. I could see John pursing his lips in my peripheral vision.

Geoff clapped me on the back, while I stood there, stiff and awkward. "Used to have chem with this guy," he said fondly, grinning in John's direction. "He was absolutely brilliant. And now here you are, solving cases ... and that blog, Dr. Watson - it's utterly fantastic!"

"If you'll excuse me," I murmured, making to exit the area. I'd heard quite enough, after all.

John made some sort of apology and came chasing after me. "What the hell was that?" he demanded. "That couple was trying to be friendly -"

"Yes - they're the complete polar opposite of how they were a decade previous," I said scornfully, going on to inform him of what they'd done. "Phony lot, that's what they are. All of them."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, that was completely horrid of them, but - it _has_ been ten years, you know," John said, taking me by the hand and meeting my gaze. "They probably feel pretty bad."

"No, they just want the chance to talk to me now that I'm 'famous'."

"They're practically enamored of you, or didn't you notice? The great Sherlock Holmes, showing up at the reunion, lowering himself to the standards of mere mortals ..."

"Shut up."

Before I knew what was happening, John was kissing me, his lips pressing firming to my own. "Besides, I'm sure they can't believe what a lovely date he's got this afternoon," he said, rubbing his fingers along my own.

"That can't be denied," I admitted.

"Come on," John said, grinning as he pulled away. "Be nice for the rest of the afternoon, and I'll ... well ..." his expression became devilish. "Well, I'll give you a damn good shag when we get home - one you won't forget," he said, his voice low enough to send shivers down my spine.

It was certainly a good incentive. "Alright," I said, my voice shaking with excitement.

We turned and made our way back into the crowd of people, our expressions both open and inviting, for once.

After all, when John promises a shag, it's best to take him seriously, for he always delivers in full.


	19. Massage Therapy

**_19) John gives Sherlock a massage_**

* * *

"Sherlock, come here. You need to unwind a little."

"Hm."

"Come on, Sherlock. For me?"

Sherlock let out a grunt of annoyance and returned his attention to the dozens of photographs in front of him. John sighed heavily. Sherlock had been hard at work on the Morgan-Smith case, and he hadn't so much as properly relaxed in days. Normally John wouldn't interrupt Sherlock while he was in such a driven mood, but it really was getting rather ridiculous, the way he wouldn't even respond to his lover's queries. And on top of that, John had thought of a new way to help Sherlock unwind, and the latter wasn't even giving him the chance to test it out.

It was due to that unresponsiveness that John decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Alrighty, then. You asked for it," John said, crawling up behind his friend and touching his hands to Sherlock's tense shoulders. He kneaded the knots in slow circles, and slowly but surely, Sherlock began to ease into it. His breathing slowed and the photographs had been forgotten. He let out a small sigh of pleasure.

"That's nice, John," he said, truly meaning it.

"You like that?" John said, grinning. "I could do more if we were upstairs."

Sherlock smiled softly to himself. John had touched him in many ways before, but never like this. He found he quite enjoyed it, and wasted no time in getting up to the bedroom, his clothes in a pile on the floor.

"You didn't take much convincing, did you?" John said with a laugh, tossing aside his clothing as well.

"Yes, well, the case was weighing on me."

"Takes a brave man to admit such a thing."

"S'pose so."

John was no massage therapist, but he could easily tell where Sherlock was most tense - his shoulders, then his back, and then just about everywhere else. He started up top, pressing down hard (but gently) and rubbing the taut skin. The kneading grew stronger, more urgent, to the point that Sherlock couldn't bother to suppress a moan.

"J-John," he murmured excitedly.

"Shh, just relax, now," John responded, continuing to whisper sweet nothings as he worked his way down Sherlock's frame, from his back to his bum to all of his limbs. He even massaged the tangled mess of dark curls, which Sherlock appeared to enjoy the most, judging by his reaction.

"You're so beautiful," John said, admiring his lover's form as he turned over on the bed, his chest heaving with excitement and his cock hard as though they'd been up to something much worse.

Sherlock laughed quietly, appreciatively. "I'm assuming you saved the best for last?" he said, watching as John's eyes darted back and forth between his shaft and his face.

"Well, I had hopes," John admitted.

"Go for it."

John rubbed the sensitive area, softly at first, then harder, until Sherlock finally came, quickly and rather messily.

"Okay!" he gasped, as John removed his hand. "I'm-I'm relaxed now, John!"

"Damn right you are. That didn't take long at all, did it? I suppose I ought to attribute it to all your pent-up stress, huh?"

"Obviously," Sherlock said with a snort as John crawled in beside him, happy enough to just cuddle with his friend. Sherlock looked over at John and smiled - not cynically, for once.

"That was nice," he said, entwining his hands with John's own. "Can we do that more often?"

"The massages, you mean? Sure, of course," John said, pressing up against his lover. "God knows you need to know when to quit, especially when you're on a case. I'm only too happy to help you."

"I feel ... appreciated," Sherlock confessed. "I don't think I ever really felt that way ... until you, John. But I feel especially appreciated now."

John was more than pleased. "I'm glad to hear it, Sherlock," he said, burying his face in the crook of the detective's neck. "I'd like to do that more often, too. I sort of think I might have a bit of an obsession with taking care of you."

"By all means, don't suppress it," Sherlock said, laughing. He yawned loudly.

"You need sleep," John said, touching a hand to Sherlock's chest. "After that, I give you full permission to continue with those photographs in the morning."

"Thanks, Mummy," Sherlock said, grinning like a loon. John scoffed and playfully pushed Sherlock aside, getting up from the bed and tucking his lover in.

"Sleep well, Sherlock."

With that, John left the room, feeling glad that he'd done something to help Sherlock loosen up a little. Sherlock himself felt grateful that he had his John around to take care of him, to make him feel loved and appreciated - because that's really what he needed, more than anything. He decided that he'd make a point of stressing himself out over the case again tomorrow, so that maybe (just maybe) John would find an excuse to touch him like that again. He wanted that pleasured feeling to continue, more than anything.

But for now, as he drifted off to sleep, he found he was content with how his heart felt, swelling up inside his chest. It wasn't a feeling he was used to - not unless he was with John - and he wanted it as much as possible, in the greatest of ways.

Thankfully, such a feeling would not be hard to acquire - not with John so close by.


	20. It's Always Been You

**_20) Possessive!John_**

* * *

It really shouldn't have bothered me; people flirted with Sherlock Holmes all the time, regardless of gender, and of age, for that matter. I'd always felt slightly protective of my friend, though I knew he could take care of himself.

This time, however, was different.

Sherlock had just reunited a man with his daughter, and the man was being, er ... overly-grateful. He hugged Sherlock warmly, and held on for far too long. Needless to say, it bothered me in the extreme.

"Sherlock," I hissed, once Mr. Naylor (the man in question) had let go. "What was that?"

"That, I imagine, was Naylor's attempt at expressing his interest in me," Sherlock said with a sly smile.

"Sherlock!"

"Jealous, John?"

"Well, I -"

Mr. Naylor reappeared before I could say anything. I think what bothered me most was that he _was_ rather attractive - and he seemed like Sherlock's type, too. He held out a card with a number on it while I stood nearby, seething.

"Call me anytime, okay, Mr. Holmes?" he said, smiling bashfully. "I'd love to keep in touch."

Sherlock took the card and nodded once, and Mr. Naylor blushed like a schoolgirl. My hands clenched into fists.

"For God's sake, John," Sherlock said, turning to me. "You are the absolute worst at hiding your true character."

"And what would my true character be?" I said, rather irritably.

"Possessive in the extreme," Sherlock said with a laugh. He bent close to my ear, speaking in a hushed voice, "I assure you, John, my interest in you hasn't wavered in the slightest, not even with the effeminate Mr. Naylor hovering nearby. I'll gladly prove it to you when we return home to Baker Street."

I shivered with anticipation. "Really?"

"Of course."

* * *

We got back some time later. As soon as the door to the sitting-room closed behind us, I had Sherlock in my arms and was kissing him warmly. Sherlock squirmed under my grip, but I didn't let him get away.

"John -" he insisted, his voice muffled my the onslaught of kisses.

"I hate it when other people flirt with you," I said breathily, raking my hands through his dark curls.

"You're ridiculous," Sherlock murmured, though he didn't sound put off my my stubbornness.

"Maybe so, but I'm also enamored," I said, grinning up at him. "I can't stand the thought of you being with anyone else, ever. Just me, okay?"

"Idiot," Sherlock muttered, "It's always been you, or hadn't you realized?" He laughed at my frustrated expression. "For the love of God, John, Mr. Naylor hardly even registered to me! I don't know why you're acting like this." He smirked. "Although there's something undeniably sexy about seeing you in such a state."

I rolled my eyes.

"No, really," Sherlock said, bending down and nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck, a hand on my back, steadying me. I felt a bulge in my pants - it always showed up, sooner or later - as he worked his mouth up along my jaw. "I love you so much," he said softly, hugging me tight, "And I'd never for one instant think of leaving you - especially not for some oddball I met during a case."

At last, I felt reassured. "Thank you," I said, meaning it.

"Anytime."

* * *

I spent the evening cuddling close to Sherlock by the fire, and my jealousy inevitably died down. Possessiveness was a quality common in the hot-blooded Watsons, and I knew I'd have to work to get over it, but I could hardly deny it was there, especially since I was dating someone as brilliant and beautiful as Sherlock. There would always be suitors; I knew that. But he'd never wavered yet in his affections, and I would certainly give him more credit than I had been throughout our relationship thus far. It would make things easier for the both of us.

I shifted my position on the sofa, cradling Sherlock's head in my lap. He let out a huge yawn, and in that moment, I knew. I knew he'd never leave me, for who else would he ever allow to see him in such a state of vulnerability? My jealousy had been warranted, but it had also been pretty ridiculous. We'd never leave each other, for we were both perfectly content where we were.

I ran a hand slowly through Sherlock's hair and watched him drift off to sleep, following suit soon after.


	21. A Little Gender-Bending

_**21) Sherlock in drag**_

* * *

It all started off simply enough: Sherlock and I were on a hunt for a serial killer, who kept leaving us cryptic messages. Only problem was, his next note left us enough reason to believe that he'd be striking at the nearest lesbian bar - perhaps a genius idea, seeing as we couldn't get in there without attracting a good deal of attention.

"We'll have to go in drag, of course," Sherlock said casually.

"Er, _what?_" I exclaimed.

"Don't act so surprised, John," he said, shrugging. "The art of disguise is nothing new to me. I'll help you get ready."

"Hang on - you're terrible at disguise! And what makes you think I'm going!?"

Sherlock looked annoyed - probably at the slam on his disguising ability, but also, I believe, because I was threatening not to go. "Please, John?" he asked, pouting a full upper lip.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Fine!" Sherlock turned on his heel, about to leave the room, turning back a second later. "John?" he tried again.

"You can't always get what you want, Sherlock."

"I promise to clean up my experiments when we get home."

"_If_ we get home."

"Very well."

"Alright, then," I said resignedly. "I know you'll just end up getting your way eventually; it's hopeless."

Sherlock grinned evilly. "This should be fun!" he said, rubbing his hands together.

* * *

Sherlock disappeared for awhile, getting himself ready while I stood in front of our closet, wondering what in blazes I was going to wear. Did Sherlock have a stash of women's clothing lying around? Surely he wasn't _that_ type. But then again, you never really know.

"Well, John?" a deeply feminine voice called from the doorway. "What do you think?"

I spun around to see - oh, God, surely that wasn't him? I did a double take. The woman had similar features to Sherlock, naturally, but I never would've guessed upon first glance - and surely the killer wouldn't, either. Sherlock wore a dark, curly wig that was such a natural part of his head that I didn't question it for a moment - all pulled back in an elastic. His tall, thin frame could easily pass for that of a modelesque young woman, covered in appropriate clubbing attire. He posed jauntily in the doorway, bursting out suddenly into raucous laughter.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it," he said, still using that feminine tone of his.

"God, no," I breathed.

"Shame we never tried this out in the bedroom," Sherlock murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Would you like me to do your hair?"

I sighed. "All I can think of is someone seeing us like this," I muttered. "Lestrade, or Donovan, or somebody."

"Nonsense. I have men's clothing packed."

"Speaking of which," I said as Sherlock searched through a bag of clothing, "You just went out and bought women's, er -"

"Women's clothing, yes," Sherlock said with a snort, losing the feminine pitch entirely. "Problem?"

"Well, er -"

"Shut up and let me concentrate," he answered impatiently, finally pulling out a flowery top and a pair of jeans. "These should fit just fine, considering your short stature -"

"Sherlock!"

"_Yes_, John?" Sherlock said annoyedly.

I sighed. "Whatever. I just -"

Before I could finish my sentence, Mrs. Hudson tapped at the door and let herself in. "Yoohoo!" she called. "Oh, my!" she said with a laugh, taking us both in, finally deciding to fix her gaze on me (the somewhat normal-looking one, I should like to think). "I just came in to tell you that the Detective Inspector caught your man, so all you have to do is report to Scotland Yard ..." our landlady sneaked a glance back at Sherlock. "Up to a little cross-dressing, young man?" she asked, continuing to laugh. "My husband was the same, but you know how it is -"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock cried, exasperated.

"Oh, yes, I'll be going, then!" she chirped, proceeding to exit the room.

"Well, at least I don't have to wear the top," I said, laughing.

"Shame," Sherlock muttered. "I so looked forward to seeing you in it."

"I must admit, though," I said, "You make a pretty fetching woman."

"'Fetching'? John, you do realize this is the twenty-first century, don't you?"

"Sherlock Holmes, the Slang Police?"

"Oh, shut it. Anyway, I'd better get this off so we can report to Lestrade."

"I want to see you in it later," I said suddenly.

"What?"

"Later. When we're having sex, I want you to dress like that. Not with the clothes, obviously, but, er -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Another fetish, I presume?"

"Probably not. I'd like to believe you're the only exception."

"Lestrade can wait a bit," Sherlock said, inching closer to me and puckering his lips. I burst into laughter.

"First things first," I said.

"Oh, very well," he muttered, tossing the wig aside and proceeding to take off the clothes. "I'll be honest, though," he said, "I was looking forward to Lestrade's reaction at seeing us in such attire. But then I remembered that Anderson could've been there, and all such thoughts were abolished."

"Nicely put." I slipped on my jacket. "Almost ready?"

Sherlock buttoned up his shirt and slid on his own coat. "More than ever," he said.

"Surprisingly invigorating, doing drag, I suppose."

"In the comfort of one's home, yes."

We dashed off to the Yard as quickly as possible, glad that only our landlady (who already knew we - or Sherlock, at least - was completely insane) had seen us. Sherlock had had a good point - if we were to save such kink for the bedroom, did we really want all of the Yard seeing us in such a compromising position? Rather, did we want Anderson, of all people, seeing us dressed like women? Absolutely not.

Besides, Sherlock had all sorts of mischief planned for later, and I was perfectly willing to wait.


	22. Bizarre Toppings

_**22) Ice cream and chocolate syrup - need I say more?**_

* * *

I'll admit, I was feeling pretty proud of myself this time. I'd gotten Sherlock Holmes to eat - out in public, no less. And if that weren't enough, he was eating ice cream. Or, rather, licking it, far too seductively.

"I haven't had this in ages," he murmured, sticking out his tongue and raking it in, like some sort of obscure cat. I looked down at my bowl (Sherlock had opted for a cone), in an attempt to hide my blush.

"Do you know what this needs?" Sherlock said, his voice practically a purr. "Chocolate syrup - and lots of it."

"I, er -" I was growing flustered, feeling myself go hard. I'd been harboring a fantasy for awhile now - Sherlock, spread out on our bed, covered in chocolate sauce. Me, licking it off him and watching him squirm. It was part of the reason I'd brought him out for ice cream, of all things, and I rather think he knew of my secret fetish and was entertaining it as best as he could, given the public setting. I was about to flat-out ask him if he was, but Sherlock spoke before I could get a word out.

"Cat got your tongue, John?"

"Oh, for God's sake," I grumbled. "Let's just go home." I made to stand, but a certain something was getting in the way.

"There's something you're not telling me," Sherlock said.

"Well, no shit," I grumbled, sitting back down, feeling insanely awkward.

Sherlock licked his cone some more, fixing me with his green gaze.

"Jesus Christ," I said, "Let's just go home, okay? No, wait - scratch that. I need to buy some chocolate syrup."

"We've already got some," Sherlock said, grinning madly.

"_What?_"

"You talk in your sleep, sometimes," my friend answered. "Don't think I don't know about this fetish of yours, John. It's nothing I can't entertain; we'll just add it to the list."

I'm pretty sure my eyes bugged out. Sherlock laughed.

"Come on," he said, tossing his cone in the trash, "I have a whole bottle of it in the fridge. It's not like I have a case going on, anyway, so I've plenty of time -"

"Oh, yes. _Yes_," I said, standing up, my slight erection finally subsided. "Let's get home. Right now."

* * *

"It terrifies me, in a way," I said, as Sherlock made his way to the refrigerator, "That I talk in my sleep, I mean. Who knows what sort of secrets I might spill?"

"Oh, please. I would've deduced it eventually."

"There is that."

Sherlock pulled out the bottle. "Now, John," he said, very slowly, as though he were instructing a child, "I'm going to take off my clothes, and you're going to pour this all over me, and lick it off my body. Understand?"

"You don't need to tell me."

"No, I suppose not," Sherlock said, laughing. Without further ado, he stripped down, right there in the kitchen, his body taut and muscular as ever. I couldn't wait to add the syrup.

"Hurry up, John!" Sherlock said, making his way up the stairs, his bare bum flashing right in my face. I rolled my eyes as we made our way up to the bedroom.

"You ready?" Sherlock asked, once I'd stripped down myself. He'd spread himself out on the bed, just as I'd pictured him in my fantasies (if you'll pardon the cliched expression). He let out a highly erotic moan, causing me to practically wet my pants as well as nearly drop the syrup bottle.

"Stop being boring and pour it on me!" Sherlock said childishly, his lips curved up in a smile.

I wasted no time. I poured the sauce all over (perhaps a bit messily, but who cared?) and proceeded to rake my tongue all along his very ticklish body. Sherlock let out a hoot and shoved me away.

"J-Jawn!" he gasped.

"You were incredibly sexy for a moment there," I said, "Until you did _that_."

"Oh, please," Sherlock said with a snort. "You're licking chocolate syrup off my body. Were you expecting me just to lay here?"

"I don't know. Are you expecting me just to quit because you're a tad ticklish?"

Before he could answer, I went down on him again, licking up all the chocolate syrup I could while Sherlock let out moans of delight. Once it was all gone, my tongue was tired, and the bed was wet all over, so we collapsed back into it, completely exhausted.

"John Watson and his bizarre fetishes," Sherlock said with a tired laugh.

"As far as fetishes go, that one's fairly common."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe so, but it was still quite the unique experience."

"I can't give into such an urge too often, though. Our grocery bill will include nothing but ice cream toppings. Mrs. Hudson will wonder. The neighbors will talk."

"Sod the neighbors," Sherlock said. "If they haven't heard us go at it by now, then they're the most unobservant bunch on the planet."

"An excellent point."

"Well! I'm going to take a shower," Sherlock said, motioning towards his sticky frame. "Care to join me?"

"Of course."

"Oh, and John?"

"Yeah_?_"

"We need to do that more often."

"Yes, definitely." And while I was looking forward to a nice hot shower with my friend, I couldn't help but think ahead to the future. In other words ... the next date with the chocolate sauce couldn't come soon enough.

I was willing to wait, though.


	23. A Sentimental Journey

_I'm late with this particular prompt ... that of which I blame solely on laziness! But here it is anyway ... :)_

* * *

_**23) Valentine's Day fluffiness**_

* * *

Sherlock had never understood St. Valentine's Day. It was a sentimental holiday, where people proclaimed undying love to each other and then promptly forgot about one another the very next morning. Perhaps it was due to his partnership with John, but he personally felt that love could be expressed just fine every other day of the year.

John would've agreed, too, but he was the type to actually get involved in the festivities, as he'd been demonstrating all morning.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's help Mrs. Hudson decorate!" he said cheerily, as the woman in question proceeded to hang up pink and red ribbons about the flat.

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock whined. "She's destroying the walls!"

"Oh, hush!" the landlady cried. "Like you haven't done that already, what with your shooting things up!"

"An excellent point, Mrs. Hudson," John said, grinning.

"You two always take sides," Sherlock said petulantly. "Why can't I just sit here and do my experiments in peace?"

"Because it's Valentine's Day, you git!"

"SO WHAT."

John sighed heavily. "You know," he said, his voice lowering so that only Sherlock could hear, "In correspondence with the festivities, a partner's sex drive is known to increase substantially on this particular day."

Sherlock's head shot up from his microscope, his eyebrows at his hairline. "That would make sense ..." he said, pondering aloud.

"Of course it makes sense!" John laughed. "And so, in honor of this holiday, I thought perhaps we'd -"

"Yes," Sherlock practically moaned. He'd been trying to suppress it for awhile now (the experiments had, at the time, seemed more pressing), but now it was something he couldn't deny. He needed John - today, while his sex drive was through the roof. While _both_ their sex drives were through the roof.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock called sweetly, "Would you mind taking that decorating downstairs for awhile?"

The landlady smiled knowingly. "You boys behave now, you hear?" she said, bustling out of the room.

Sherlock practically leaped over to John as soon as she had disappeared, but stopped just as he was working John's jumper over his head. His mouth widened in a round 'o' of childish realization.

"You tricked me!" he said. "What you said - it makes complete, logical sense - but why else would you say it, if not to get me to do this?"

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe that's exactly what I wanted?" John said, smirking. "Come on, Sherlock. We haven't done this in ages. And it's -"

"Valentine's Day, yes, you only told me about six hundred times," Sherlock said with a mock-sigh. "It doesn't matter, though - not really. It could be any day of the year and I'd still want to fuck you senseless."

"Oh, shaddup," John said, feeling himself blush like mad.

"I don't have anything," Sherlock said as he knelt on the floor and pressed his face into John's strong abdomen. "None of the typical sentimental rubbish - no gifts, no chocolate -"

"I don't need gifts," John insisted, "And if it makes you feel better, your voice is about the equivalent of chocolate-dipped sex, so I think we've got that department covered."

"_Really?_" Sherlock purred.

"Don't let it get to your head."

Sherlock, flattered by the compliment, felt the need to give his all to John that day. It didn't matter that they were in the middle of the sitting-room, or that it was barely noon, or that their clothes were barely off ... just holding, touching each other was enough. Sherlock suddenly found that he didn't just want a cheap shag - not today. Never, really - not with John ... it always meant more with John - but especially not today. They'd save the kink for another day, but for now - well, this was enough.

Eventually they made it over to the sofa, where Sherlock curled up in John's strong arms and allowed his breathing to slow a little. This was nice. He didn't know why he'd been denying himself this for so long.

"Sherlock?" John said, once they'd found a comfortable position.

"Yes?"

"I love you, you know that?"

"Really, John, you have quite the knack for stating the obvious -"

"Oh, shut up," John grumbled, smacking Sherlock upside the head. "Happy Valentine's Day."

"You, too."

They fell asleep together. When Mrs. Hudson returned, assuming they were all through, she found the doctor and the detective snuggled in each other's arms, both snoring gently. The resulting photograph would forever be brought out upon every future Valentine's Day, and was used as frequent blackmail, though truthfully, neither Sherlock nor John minded it much. It was far too sentimental (Sherlock insisted), but they both had to admit to liking it anyway.


	24. Strange Obsessions

_**24) Sherlock is somehow creepily obsessed with John**_

* * *

I wonder, if John knew ... what would he say?

I could never admit this to him. The fact that I collect hair, fingernail, blood samples? And the fact that those very samples are his own? For God's sake, he'd move as far away as possible and never want anything to do with me again.

I'll admit, I'm a bit terrified about that happening. Especially since even I know this isn't normal. I just can't help myself, though - the idea of having bits and pieces of John, all for my own, somehow excites me. Nevermind the fact that it's creepy - you don't think I don't know it? You wouldn't be able to help yourself, either ... not if you had John Watson as a lover!

He's leaving, again, for the supermarket. Perfect. He probably hasn't cleaned his razor yet. I'll just go through and pick out a few hairs ...

I make my way up to the loo, stepping back into the shower. I take up the razor, and sure enough, there's some hair. There's even a bit of blood, which is too bad for John, but really works well for me, seeing as I collect blood samples, too. I take out the entire blade and make to go downstairs when -

"Stealing my razor blades, are we?"

"_W-what!?_" I jump about a foot out of my shoes. John's standing there, an eyebrow arched in an amused manner. "For God's sake, John -"

"You really shouldn't just leave your oddball experiments sitting out, Sherlock," John chastises. "Especially when they've to do with me."

"How did you -?"

"You think I could live with the world's most observant man for over two years and not pick up on his skills of deduction? How could I _not_ know about your secret obsession?" John says, laughing. "Jesus, Sherlock, you don't have to hide it anymore. We've been a couple for ages - I of all people understand an odd fetish."

My breath hitches in my throat. "You - I -"

John steps over to me and kisses me, and I'm silenced. I always am, when he does that, and not in a bad way.

"You're adorable," John says, hugging me tight and stepping back to look at me. "Although I must say, other people might be quicker to judge your obsession than me, so you got lucky, having me as your partner."

"Yes, well, why should anyone else find out?"

"You have a point there." John holds his hand out, and I guiltily relinquish the razor blade. John examines it, and then, to my relief, hands it back to me.

"Keep it; it's filthy, anyway. Besides, I wouldn't want to keep you from analyzing the hell out of it."

I grin. "No, I suppose not." I'm about to make my way downstairs when I think of something. "Why are you back so soon, anyway?"

"Forgot my card."

"Oh." It's a perfectly understandable explanation, and perhaps it's for the better. How would I have felt, if I'd assumed I'd been keeping a secret from John for so long? Awful, probably - so really, our being at a mutual understanding is for the better.

I return to my experiments, feeling more than relieved. These hair samples are probably about as far as my obsession goes ... but wait. Does he know about how I dig through his underwear? That I particularly adore those red pants of his, even when he's not modeling them for me?

But no, I'll assume he already knows. His skills at deduction _have_ substantially improved, after all. Besides that, I'd rather take one thing at a time. I'm still a bit scared I'll drive him away ... but then again, no. That's not going to happen. This is stubborn, loyal John we're talking about, and it's comforting to know that he won't leave me, ever, unless he has a truly legitimate reason to.

Which is basically saying he'll never go, because I'll never give him a reason.

Like I said, it's a comforting thought.


	25. Easy Way or the Hard Way?

_**25) Sherlock making a sex joke**_

* * *

When Sherlock actually decides to put the experiments away and answer my call, he's beyond fantastic. He doesn't just get aroused - the man practically goes into heat in his passion.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, and the above was happening in full measure. Sherlock had worked my jumper over my head and was hungrily making his way down to my trousers when -

"Sherlock, for God's sake, have you gone entirely deaf? Or has your beloved John dulled your senses completely?"

Sherlock stood up quickly, re-buttoning his shirt with and snarl of annoyance. "I suppose my senses are to blame," he drawled, "Seeing as even the least astute of listeners could hear you creaking up the stairs. Diet not going so well, I presume?"

Mycroft's eyes turned to slits, and I shot Sherlock a quick look - my 'it's okay, don't let him get to you' look. Sherlock smiled back, unable to resist the John Watson charm, I imagine.

"A woman dead in Pall Mall - an important government agent, who appears to have just shot herself in the head. Won't you come down, little brother?" The last sentence was patronizing, and would've probably really annoyed my friend, if not for the fact that he'd calmed considerably. Now he was in a rare joking mood, and wasn't complying.

"What if I say no?" Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow and grinning.

"You will be recompensed in full -"

Sherlock waved a hand. "I don't want your money."

"Sherlock! Come on, be reasonable -" Mycroft cleared his throat. "I'd hate to use force, but we really do need you on the scene ... look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way -"

"I'm easy," I said quickly, not wanting to be difficult.

Sherlock's grin was devilish. "I'm hard," he said, his voice calm.

It took me - and I imagine Mycroft - a moment to get our bearings. _What_ had he just said!?

"And for that very reason," Sherlock said, continuing on as though nothing had happened, "I'd like to continue in my activities with John, without interruption. You are excused, brother dear."

Mycroft, whose face was red as a cherry, twirled his umbrella awkwardly and made to exit the room. "I'll phone next time," he said, coughing in an uncomfortable manner.

Once he'd gone, Sherlock and I both burst into laughter.

"Sherlock Holmes, you should be ashamed of yourself!" I cried. "Your own brother!"

"He's always going about, being a prat," Sherlock grumbled, a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth, "And I never know how to get rid of him. What I said - that was a last-resort type of thing."

"Besides that," I said, "I never would've thought you had it in you."

"Had _what_ in me?" Sherlock asked, baffled.

"The ability to make a sex joke, of course!"

"Yes, well, I've been known to surprise people," Sherlock said, coughing a little himself. "Now, er, where were we?"

I hadn't put my shirt on since Mycroft entered (how terribly awkward ... but then again, what hadn't been, today?), so really, Sherlock and I could pick up right where we'd started. He threw aside his clothes and, yes, I could see he was, indeed, very hard.

"I still can't believe you shared such classified information with your brother," I admitted, as Sherlock buried his face into the crook of my neck, pressing his body up against mine.

"He didn't realize he was interrupting something important, so I decided to show him who the real unobservant one was," Sherlock said with a low laugh.

"That really got to you, didn't it? Him calling you unobservant?"

Sherlock touched a hand to my bum, and I positively shivered. "Maybe so," he said, rubbing his hand up and down, "But I've got my John, so I shan't let it bother me too much."

"That's the spirit," I said, doing my best to reciprocate. Sherlock _was_ hard, after all, and I had to make sure the resulting sex was excellent.

Besides that, he'd made a joke for the ages, so denying him anything was the closest thing to an impossibility.


	26. Moments Like These

_**26) 'Morning-after' cuteness**_

* * *

It's moments like these that I cherish most of all.

Sure, I love the sex, and I can't complain about the insane adventures I'm always tagging along on. It's one hell of a ride, I'll say that much. Simply put, I wouldn't trade my life with Sherlock Holmes for all the world.

But as I was saying, I enjoy these times above all else.

I've just woken up, and Sherlock, being the late riser that he is, is still asleep. We were at it pretty hard last night, right after a grueling case, of all things, so naturally he's pretty wiped out. I'm rather glad for that fact, seeing as I get to lay here and watch him, calmer than I've ever seen him during the day.

He's got a thick blanket pulled around him, and his snoring softly into his pillow. His dark curls are disheveled, his left hand curled in a light fist. He hasn't even bothered to put his clothes back on, so I get a nice glimpse of bare posterior as he rolls over.

God, he's beautiful. I can't even get over it. How is this the same man who solved a triple murder just last night? It's not as though he's any more or less of anything since last evening; what I mean to say is, he hardly seems the same person. The cold, calculating being who can deduce just about anything.

He rolls over again (he was never a very heavy sleeper) and his bright green eyes open, squinting against the light. He yawns, blinking the sleep away.

"John?" he says, his voice groggy.

"I'm right here." I touch a hand to his face.

"I'm sore," he murmurs, falling into me - just a little. "So sore."

"From the case?" I ask, knowing that's not the right answer.

"Don't be an idiot."

I laugh. Once again, this is hardly the same person I had relations with last night. He's so serene, now - a complete 180 from the sex-crazed maniac I remember. "Look who's talking. You knew the consequences and you went through with it anyway. Besides, the Watsons are known for never doing anything half-arsed."

"That's for sure." Sherlock pushes himself up in bed, pulling the covers around his lithe frame, and leaning, once again, into me. "Last night was odd," he says, chuckling softly to himself.

I grin. "_That's_ an understatement. I think I'll be locking the stilettos safely away for awhile."

"Good idea," Sherlock agrees, rubbing his sore back. "I don't know if my backside could handle any more - for a good long time, that is."

"Come on," I say, throwing the blankets aside and standing up, stretching out as well as I can. "Time for breakfast. I'm starving."

Sherlock shrugs; I know he won't eat anything unless he's planning on humoring me. He bends over to retrieve his sweatpants and shirt, throwing his blue-dressing-gown over his shoulders. He yawns again.

"Oh, come on, John, can't we just go back to bed?"

"Here's an idea," I say, with a sudden burst of genius, "I'll make you breakfast in bed. Or, rather, I'll have Mrs. Hudson make you something, and I'll serve it as though I made it myself."

"Sounds fantastic."

I race downstairs and give Mrs. Hudson the necessary commands, those of which she accepts, only half-grudgingly. Once the food is done (eggs, bacon, the whole affair), I bring the tray up to our bedroom. Sherlock's passed out asleep again, snoring even more loudly than before.

"Oh, _Sher_-lock," I singsong. "Food's ready."

Sherlock stretches out like a cat, opening his eyes and sitting up again. "I'm such a lazy devil," he murmurs. "It's incurable, you know. I really don't see why you put up with me."

"Yes, you're awfully high-maintenance," I admit, setting the tray down on his lap. "You have to eat that, or I won't be doing you any favors for a month."

Sherlock pouts, but ends up eating the entire plate anyway. He pats his stomach in contentment.

"Too ... full ..." he says dramatically.

I roll my eyes. "It's past ten, you know. And besides, I'm fairly certain I heard you phone go off downstairs. Probably a case."

"What else would it be?" Sherlock asks, pulling himself out of bed and making his way downstairs. He checks his phone, looking up at me a moment later, grinning. "Bank robbery," he says. "A security guard shot dead; no one can remember much of anything. Sounds like my kind of investigation!"

"Sherlock!" I exclaim.

"Not good?"

"A bit not good, yeah."

"I just can't believe how much time I've spent, lazing about, when there's a murder and a robbery to be solved!" Sherlock's running about like a crazed animal.

"Yes, well, you needed the break."

"I suppose I did," Sherlock says, bouncing over and giving me a kiss. "I can't tell you how grateful I am to have a mother-hen clucking about, looking after my welfare."

"Sherlock!" I say again, but I know he means it. He appreciates all I've done - all I do - as much as I appreciate his presence, and the general insanity he lets me in on. And whether he likes it or not, I'll be sticking around a long while to continue in my fussing over him.

I'm certain he doesn't mind it, though ... especially on the mornings after, the time one needs their lover around the most - even more than at night.

I'll be sticking around, that's for sure - he needn't worry about _that_.


	27. On the Line

_Special thanks in particular to _**johnsarmylady**_, _**starrysummernights**_, and _**serenityofthematrix**_ for showing such amazing support. And everyone else who reviewed/followed/favorited - I'm beyond grateful (I can't believe I haven't thanked you all before; shame on me!). Just four chapters left ... hang in there!_

* * *

_**27) Phone sex**_

* * *

John isn't bored easily, but Dublin's drowning him in monotony. He'll be heading back to London tomorrow - back to Sherlock. It's amazing how one day from his partner is practically unbearable, but that's the case.

Speaking of cases, John wonders how Sherlock's getting along with the Wilbury murders. They were particularly baffling when John left, but he imagines Sherlock's solved them by now. He always does, in the end.

Just in case, though, John decides to give him a call and see how he's doing. Not just on the case, but about his general welfare, too. Sherlock's famous for constant denial, especially where food intake is concerned. John worries, and doesn't try to hide it.

"Hello, John," Sherlock's deep baritone purrs through the mobile.

"Er, hey," John says. "How're you doing?"

"Just fine," Sherlock says. Is it just him, or does his friend's voice sound even throatier than usual? All John's senses are on fire. Without that gorgeous body to focus on, his entire attention is on Sherlock's tone, inflection ... everything voice-related. And he's only just said four words.

"You solve that case?" John asks, trying to regain composure.

"Meretricious, as usual," Sherlock says; John can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "It was the family accountant. I can't say I'm surprised."

"You're eating? Sleeping?"

"_Yes_, John," Sherlock grumbles, in a sort of irritated ... purr? John questions (not for the first time) if he's imagining things.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Are you horny right now?"

John can't believe how blunt he's been, but Sherlock only laughs, deep and sensual.

"Astute observation, John. You've deduced the state of my arousal based merely on the sound of my -"

"Oh, shut up," John says good-naturedly. "Look - you're horny, and I'm bored. I'm stuck in this little inn that barely has running water. I'm surprised I got phone service, actually. I -"

"You want me to ... entertain you?" Sherlock says - it's more of an actual question than something snotty. John, suddenly very much in heat, squeaks out an excited response.

"God, you're such a child," Sherlock laughs. "Very well. _John_," he says, his voice suddenly deeper and huskier than ever as he begins. "I want you here, right this moment, standing in front of me, that cock of yours in my - oh, shit! MRS. HUDSON!"

John, who's been tingling with arousal, jumps, startled by the noise. He overhears muffled noises on the other end, the landlady shouting things back. A door slams, and Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Damned woman. Can't get her out of my hair."

"Oh, come on, Sherlock, you know you love her."

"She appears at the worst of times!" Sherlock exclaims. His voice is hushed. "I was in a rather compromising position, if you catch my meaning."

John snorts. "As was I."

"This isn't working," Sherlock says, suddenly insecure. "I'm no good at phone sex. It's much easier having you here."

"Just, er - let me see - talk about what you want to do to me. Like you were doing. It was fine, just fine."

It's more than fine, though John can hardly admit it. He presses his ear up to the phone as Sherlock continues, talking of the naughtiest of things. John (finally) lets out a moan of contentment, unable to hold back any longer.

"I need you here," Sherlock growls, "Now. Right now. Hop on a plane and get the hell back here."

"Sherlock, I'm here till tomorrow -"

"Doesn't matter. I'm giving you an order."

"Really, Sherlock?" John asks with a shaky laugh. "_You're_ pulling rank on _me?_ I think we all know who gives the orders around here!"

Sherlock lets out a pleasured groan. "I love it when you get all dominant like that. We're going to have to roleplay sometime. You'll be dressed in your military garb, and I'll beg for mercy. Twice."

"Damn right you will." John takes joy in the fact that he is fully capable of getting Sherlock to do that, unlike anybody else.

"Argh!" Sherlock suddenly snarls. "That blasted woman is banging around the flat again. I need to see what she's up to. As I was saying, though - John? Get back here as soon as possible. I really haven't a clue how to talk someone up - not unless they're right in front of me."

"Alright, Sherlock," John says adoringly. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Just you wait," Sherlock says mischievously. "I can't wait to taste that glorious -"

John hangs up before he can finish. He wants to save whatever Sherlock has planned for tomorrow. Besides, he can't afford to get turned on even more than he already is. If that happened, his entire universe would surely implode.


	28. Presumed Homoeroticism

_**28) The boys discover 'Johnlock' on the Internet**_

* * *

"Hey, Sherlock, wouldja come here for a second?" John called, his voice urgent.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope. John wasn't startled by much, so whatever this was, it would certainly be good. The detective braced himself and entered the sitting-room ... finding John at his laptop.

"For God's sake, John, if it's something as dull as porn -"

"Well, er ... porn, yes. You'll never guess who it's of, though." John turned the computer in his lover's direction.

Sherlock practically choked. There, in front of him, was a picture that somebody had obviously taken a great deal of time drawing, of John and himself. Their bodily proportions were quite exaggerated, and they were engaging in a rather graphic activity. It was about as homoerotic a thing as Sherlock had ever seen.

"We've never tried that position before," he admitted, trying to keep his cool.

"Sherlock, do you realize how bad this is!?" John cried. "You're famous now, and we're a couple, obviously, so people are going to ship us!"

"_Ship_ us? What does that even -"

"It means they're going to draw pictures, like this, and do all sorts of crazy things to show we're together," John said, by way of explanation. "And you know how celebrity couples have combined names? Well, ours is 'Johnlock'; how about that?"

"You sound upset by this."

"Oh, I don't know!" John groaned. "My point being, I've been scrolling through this site called 'Deviantart', and there's all sorts of pictures like this one. And did you know people actually write stories about us, engaging in these activities?"

Sherlock smirked. "Written porn? I rather like the idea."

"Sherlock!" John wailed. "I just - I don't want people getting this idea that we just shag each other all day."

"But we _do_ shag each other all day."

"But it's all over the 'net! I just - I -"

"John, if anything, you should be flattered," Sherlock said, now (finally) over his initial surprise. "These drawings must've taken hours. Besides, they've made us positively chiseled; I don't think I've ever had quite a set of abs in all my life!"

John laughed. "I suppose you have a point. As usual."

"Besides, this might give us all sorts of ideas. You know, positions we could try, experiments of the sort ..." Sherlock grinned. "You said there's many more drawings like this one?"

"Thousands of them."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "And stories?"

"Yeah, on a website called 'Fanfiction dot net'. I checked; there's over 25,000 stories about us - most of them aren't even about our cases, they're about us being together! All I mean to say is, is that all people see when they look at us?"

"Probably."

John sighed. "I'll show you the stories if you want."

Sherlock nodded, and John clicked onto the website. From reading the summaries alone, most of the 'fics' looked to be quite interesting. Sherlock made a mental note to read some when he had the time.

"Who told you about this?" he asked suddenly.

"Stamford, the git," John laughed. "He's like, 'hey, have you heard? You two are a celebrity couple now; it's all over the Internet.' Loudly, too, so I'm willing to wager that everyone within a half-mile radius heard him describing 'Johnlock fanfiction'."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Everyone already knew, by the sound of it."

"You're being awfully calm about all of this. Aren't you surprised?"

"We've been 'shipped' together since we first met. When two young men frequently seen in each other's company become famous, presumed homoeroticism is to be expected."

"You just pulled that out of your arse."

"Maybe I did." Sherlock leaned over and clicked out of the browser. "Put the computer away for awhile, John, and come have dinner with me."

"Dinner, you?"

"Anything, if it'll help you to stop obsessing over this. Besides, it's obviously not an insult, especially when people spend so much effort drawing us and writing about us like that."

John shrugged, getting up to follow Sherlock into the kitchen. His friend did have a point. It made him smile to himself - after all, it went to confirm just how strong their relationship was. People wanted them together, that was clear - which just went to show that John had, after all, made the right choice by making Sherlock his own.

Not that he'd needed confirmation, but it was certainly nice, knowing they had so much support.


	29. A Public Affair

_**29) Sex in a public place**_

* * *

"How long do you think we have?"

"Oh, I don't know. Five minutes, tops."

"This feels wrong, you know?"

"Perhaps so. Just be glad it's not Anderson's."

John laughs. We've locked ourselves away in Lestrade's office, just after a case, and all we can think of right now is fucking each other, hard. Probably not the smartest of ideas (or the most sanitary), but like I said, at least the office belongs to someone who will eventually get over it if we're found out.

I pull my trousers down just a little, so that I can pull them back up again in case we have to cut it close. John does the same. Our coats are already off, my scarf tossed aside. John grins in a way that most wouldn't give him credit for, and presses himself up against me.

"Excellent work, on the case," he says, moving so that he's in the back.

I roll my eyes, promptly letting out a small moan as he enters me. "To hell with the case," I gasp out, as John gets me into the chair across from Lestrade's desk, in a completely dominant position. He growls hungrily and plants a number of kisses on my neck. I can't help myself; I let out a rather unmasculine cry as he presses in further. We've never taken such a risk, not until now, and for a moment I wonder if we've gotten too daring. Don't we care for the potential consequences?

No. Of course not. Sod those. It doesn't matter that -

... that Lestrade's shouting "Hey, who's in there?" loudly through the door.

John's eyes widen, and he pulls out quickly. I feel limp as a rag doll, but John tosses my clothes over to me, pulling me back to reality.

"Sherlock, John?" Lestrade calls. "That you in there?"

John helps me on with my coat; I'm still a bit dazed.

"I have a key, you know, so if you're doing something questionable -"

John's just zipping his trousers as the key turns in the lock. He enters, and I do my best to look innocent.

"Something's going on here," Lestrade says. "Whatever it is, I really don't wanna know." He looks me over. "Er, your zipper's undone, Sherlock," he says, pointing in the general direction of my crotch.

Oh, God - that really settles it. I'm fairly certain I go pale, pulling up my zipper and buttoning my trousers in abject humiliation. John stifles a snort, and I shoot him a death glare.

Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "Whatever you were doing, could you maybe not do it in my office? Surely it can wait till you're back at home?"

He knows. Oh God, he _knows_.

"Anyway, you two are absolutely horrid actors," Lestrade says, laughing good-naturedly. "Maybe not when you're trying to get something out of Molly, say, but in matters of the heart, well ..."

"Righto," John mumbles, making to exit the room. "Coming, Sherlock?"

I nod stiffly, exiting at John's side while Lestrade merely chuckles.

* * *

On the cab ride home, we both finally let loose our laughter. We're positively guffawing, unable to control ourselves. The cabbie's looking at us strangely, but I couldn't care less.

John slaps his knees, his eyes filling with tears. "Oh, God, that was great," he says, running a hand through his short hair. "We are going to have to be much more careful next time."

"Part of the fun was not being careful," I say, tearing up a little myself.

"You have a point, but - really, Sherlock? Lestrade's office? You complete numbskull!"

"It was your idea, too!"

"Nah, you're taking the blame this time. You're the one who's always got such crazy schemes."

I give a mock-exasperated huff. "Whatever, John."

When we reach Baker Street again, an idea strikes me. "Next time: the tube."

"No! Absolutely not!" John cries.

"Not in front of people, obviously!"

"Where, then, Sherlock? The loos there are tiny."

"We'll think of something."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are completely psychotic."

"I think you mean sociopathic -"

"Oookay then."

I get John into a headlock and ruffle his hair rather uncharacteristically. "I think it's the rush of the thing. Much better than drugs or nicotine, you know?"

"Yeah, I can see where that'd be."

I grin, letting him free. He's no replacement for my vices - he's even better. Simply put, I wouldn't trade the rush of his company for anything. We don't have to be doing much, really - it's still all good fun.

Sometimes, I imagine that's all one really needs ... good company and a fun sort of activity. I can't believe I never realized it before.

But here I go, getting all sentimental. I don't have time to think things through, really, because John's on top of me again, and I must do everything I can to reciprocate.

I can't let him have dominance - not this time.


	30. Lights, Camera, Action!

_Last chapter! Thanks for reading - and if you're looking for any good prompts, check out the 'bbc sherlock' tag on LiveJournal. That's where I got all of these ideas!_

* * *

_**30) Sherlock and John make a sex tape**_

* * *

"John, hurry up! I'm positively horny."

"You know, you could be helping me with this!" I said exasperatedly.

Sherlock was splayed out on the bed, being his usual lazy self, but I hardly minded. He looked even leaner and more chiseled than ever that evening ... perfect for being on camera.

"What if this tape gets leaked?" Sherlock asked, pulling himself up.

"We aren't celebrities. Nobody cares if we've got a sex tape; plenty of other couples have got it."

"I'm sure I know of several who'd be glad to get their hands on ours."

I shrugged. "We'll stash it away and either of us can watch it when the other's not around, in case we're lonely or horny or whatever."

"Imagine what could happen, though, John!" Sherlock laughed, running a hand through his glossy curls. "The absolute worst, guaranteed. Mrs. Hudson will find it. No - _Mycroft_ will find it! Oh, God, this is going to end terribly."

I ignored him - he was talking nonsense, after all - and finally pressed the right button, turning the camera on. I set it up on the tripod and pressed play.

"It feels like the entire world is watching," Sherlock admitted.

"Nonsense. Just be yourself."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Really, now?"

"Unless you want me to pin you down?"

"Enough chatter," Sherlock commanded. "John. On the bed. Now."

I complied eagerly. Sherlock wasn't often dominant in bed (surprisingly), but on the rare occasions that he was, I was always about twice as aroused. There was something so amazingly sexy about Sherlock commanding people, pushing them around, being bossy. Not all the time, of course, but I did really like it when he took control, especially at times such as these.

"Turn around," Sherlock snapped. I knew he wasn't really angry - he was just playing a part for the camera. I did so, and Sherlock's rock-solid manhood touched mine, but he pulled back all of a sudden.

I spun around to see what was the matter, and found Sherlock turned away from me, hunched over and shaking. I instantly panicked, wondering what could be the matter, until he turned around and I found he was shaking with laughter, rather than something else.

"What's so funny?" I asked.

"This entire concept!" Sherlock exclaimed. "A _sex tape!?_ This has got to be our worst idea yet."

"It's a great idea!" I said, a little hurt, seeing as I'd been the one to propose it.

"Oh, John," Sherlock said with a smile, "I'm not insulting your idea. I just think it's silly, like half the stuff we ever do. Why don't we just turn the bloody camera off and shag each other the normal way?"

"You wouldn't find that dull?" Deep down, I'd wanted to impress Sherlock with my ingenuity. He was the one always complaining about being bored, after all.

"Nah, of course not. I like being with you, John. And the shagging. That's all that matters."

"The shaggi-"

"No, being with you!" Sherlock crawled closer and kissed me on the cheek. "Besides, what if you accidentally uploaded this film to your blog? We'd be finished."

"You're paranoid."

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps so."

I grinned, finally over myself, and went to turn off the camera. "Alright, then," I said. "We'll just do what comes naturally, okay?"

"Sounds great."

And so we did. Who knows, maybe our little homemade pornography would make a comeback someday. All I knew was, today wasn't the day, and I was starting to be okay with that. Because you know what? Being with my lover, that's all that really mattered.

Being with Sherlock.

Nothing extra was needed; we were perfectly happy just the way we were.


End file.
